A Song for Molly
by Imogen74
Summary: Molly's POV of the aftermath of TFP. She's in a state, and needs a break. What happens when she learns she can run, but she can't hide? Sherlolly. Angst. Loads.
1. Chapter 1

_This will be mostly Molly's POV of the aftermath of TFP. I'm thinking of doing this as two chapters her POV, one chapter his. We'll see. It is not a companion piece to "Zephyros," but it won't differ that much…and I anticipate slightly more angst._

* * *

She hung the phone up, shaking.

She felt ill…dizzy…what on earth had just happened?

…and she felt the bile rising from her stomach, and ran to the bathroom. She spilled the contents of her stomach into the toilet and slumped in a heap.

Molly Hooper had tears streaming down her face…she had had a shit day, and now this. Her mum had called, berating her for choice of job, her lack of boyfriend, and for dumping Tom.

On her day off…this is what she had to contend with.

She sobbed…he had said the words…and she played along. His stupid games.

But on her terms, she thought in a desperate attempt to make herself feel better.

No. Never on her terms. He dictated everything about her heart. Yes, they were friends…

She fell sideways onto the floor. No. They weren't friends. Friends didn't do things like what he had just done to her.

Molly must have fallen asleep, because she opened her eyes and felt dazed. She went to stand and nearly fell over.

She couldn't think about it…couldn't think about what had happened…it was too humiliating.

But her mind kept going back to it. How she gave in, again.

How she had almost never said "no," but he made her comply.

What might that say about her mind? Her heart? Her person…?

She got unsteadily to her feet and rinsed her mouth. She held onto the sink and looked at herself in the glass…her makeup had run down her face from wrenching. Her eyes were bloodshot and still crying. She was pale, shaking and had a raging headache.

Molly looked away. It wouldn't do to stare at herself. What was the point? She knew she looked like shit.

She went to the kitchen and checked the time.

Six at night.

The call had been over an hour ago.

She thought about what she should do now that she had been undone again and had to pick up the pieces once more by herself.

Molly looked at the tea, cold now, and felt ill once more.

Bed.

She turned and went to her bedroom, took her clothes off, and climbed into bed.

Sleep came easily, fraught though it was. She didn't recall any dreams, but woke with some regularity…nearly every hour…

At six she texted Mike Stamford telling him she was too ill to come into work.

…and she got up and ate ice cream and pretzels, watched crap telly and cried.

Her life had become a punch line. She had a respectable job in the basement of Bart's, but the geography of it made it laughable. A basement. She worked in a basement.

She had a lovely flat, but it, too, was in a basement.

And she was so alone…her friends were mostly _his_ friends, too. She only had Meena and a couple of people from home. After she and Tom broke it off, she lost that network, which was devastating in its own right.

And Molly felt herself despair. She felt sorry for herself…she felt angry. She thought that, had she have been of less sound mind, she would consider offing herself.

But she wouldn't, because that wasn't something that she would ever do.

How she hated him, then! He wasn't worth it. No one was.

She wished that she had the strength to get up and make herself something to eat.

She looked at the telly and sighed. She had to get up. Molly stood on wobbly legs and walked to the kitchen. She decided to clean up the mess she had left yesterday when she hung up…she swallowed.

And now he knew. He always had known, but now he _knew_ because she had told him. There was something so…pathetic about telling the person you were in love with and knew them not to be in love with you that you loved them.

But she cleaned the mess and decided to eat something.

And tomorrow, she'd go back to work.

* * *

The morgue was cold. Not surprising. What was surprising was how nice Mike was to her. Not that he was ever mean, but he seemed to go out of his way to smile and ask how she was.

She didn't think much of it until she remembered that John Watson and Mike were friends…and that he had likely spoken with John about the call, and John spoke with Mike.

And she felt pissed.

Molly ignored Mike the rest of the night.

She was tired of always being nice. She was sick of being so compliant.

She left Bart's in a state.

And she decided to walk instead of taking the bus. Molly shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket and tried desperately to not think of Sherlock Holmes.

It was near impossible, though, and s lump formed in her throat. She felt so small and naive. So…

She rounded the corner and saw his figure standing at her door.

Molly froze. She didn't know that she could face him. Didn't know if she could speak with him…she took a step closer…

…and he saw her.

"Molly," she heard him say.

She panicked and turned…but didn't move. God, she felt stupid. She wouldn't let him do this to her again…she just wouldn't…and she turned once more and saw him walking toward her. She swallowed and tried to muster what she could in terms of gall. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to speak with you."

"Obviously," and she saw his eyes react to that word. "That's assuming that I want to speak with you."

"It really isn't a matter of whether you want to. I need to."

"Really?" she couldn't believe her ears. "You are something."

He took her elbow. "Molly, please…give me five minutes of your time."

"Let go," she said calmly.

He swallowed and dropped his hand. "Can I speak with you? Please?"

"About what?" she crossed her arms.

He rolled his eyes and she almost slapped him. "About the other night. The phone call."

"Don't," she choked, and she hated that she did.

"Let's go inside," he said softly.

"No."

He looked around them, and she watched him make calculations. "Will you speak with me outside of your flat? Just outside the door there?"

"Sherlock…I don't want to. I don't want to speak with you. I want to go home, have a bath, and go to bed. Can't I just do that?"

She watched as he exhaled a long breath. "I…" he seemed to be considering something. He looked at his feet. "I'm sorry, Molly," and he looked at her again. "And yes. Of course…I won't keep you. But this needs to be discussed. I hope you'll agree to soon," he smiled a bit, and turned away.

She exhaled. Thank god he didn't make a scene. She didn't think that she had the strength for that. She fumbled with her keys and went to her door.

…and promised herself she wouldn't cry.

And she didn't.

She went inside and felt the silence press against her. She breathed in deeply and set the keys in the bowl by the door.

She turned her phone off.

And got the bath ready.

* * *

Molly was making breakfast…she only needed to get through the day, and then she had a glorious three days off.

Three days to try and not think about Sherlock Holmes! She smiled.

Perhaps she should take a holiday…ask Mike for a full week.

That was an idea. She smiled. And she felt resolved and purposeful.

* * *

"You want the week? What for?" Mike was sitting at his desk, looking crookedly at Molly. And she was smiling.

"Rest."

"Where will you go?"

"Dunno yet. That's part of the reason why I need some more time. It's already Wednesday…"

He looked down at the paper she had filled out and shrugged. "You ok, Molly? You just called off."

"Fine. I'm fine. Just need a break."

He nodded. "So you'll be back on Thursday?"

She shrugged.

"How about the following Monday. That should be enough rest for you," he smiled, fixing the dates and signing the paper.

"Thanks Mike," and she took the paper. "That's really generous."

"No problem. Get yourself sorted," and he turned away and started typing on the computer.

Molly nodded and left. This was exactly what she needed. This…this time would allow her the opportunity to gain perspective.

…and the rest of the day at the morgue went pleasantly enough. She felt like she had made progress.

* * *

She was going through her mail, nothing of consequence was there…

…until she saw an advertisement for "The Old Lockup" in Derbyshire.

 ** _The Old Lockup_** _is an ideal location for exploring the unique landscape of the Derbyshire countryside, walking or cycling the High Peak Trail, or enjoying the many water sports on offer at nearby Carsington Reservoir._

 ** _The Old Lockup_** _has been sensitively refurbished to combine its historic original features with modern convenience. Its four spacious en-suite bedrooms are individually styled and furnished, complete with everything needed for a comfortable stay._

She poured some wine and sipped it. This…this sounded lovely.

But what were the chances there was a vacancy this weekend?

She dialed up the place.

"Old Lockup."

"Hi…um…I was wondering…do you have any vacancies this weekend?"

"Actually, we have only one reservation. And I can offer you a fantastic price on The Magistrate's Room, since our other two are going through renovations."

"What's the price?"

"Fifty pounds."

She couldn't believe it…"A night?"

"For the weekend. Another fifty for Monday through Wednesday."

"A hundred for the week?"

"That's right."

Molly smiled. "I'll take it."

* * *

 _A/N: so...this idea was originally introduced in Zephyros, but I never did anything with it. Thought it was a clever enough trope (overdone though it may be), to examine here. Hope you enjoy it!_


	2. Chapter 2

She was not paying attention to the speed limit…and it showed. Molly was whizzing by the countryside, having left London much slower than she would have liked. But, traffic and such prohibited speedy movement.

She felt exhilarated and free…and those feelings begged speed.

…and so she did.

Derbyshire was lovely country, Molly had been there once before while in uni, with her boyfriend at the time…

She thought about that for a moment…

She had met Sherlock just a couple of years out of uni, and hadn't dated anyone in the interim. So much time spent over him…Paul had likely been the last boyfriend untainted by Sherlock. Unclouded.

Molly's brow furrowed and she pressed the gas.

No more.

She would go forward with eyes wide open. She would treat him as indifferently as possible. She would be untethered and unencumbered and…

She sighed and slowed the car slightly. She doubted whether any of this would be possible…she had been in love with him for so very long.

And she felt pathetic in the extreme.

Molly had recognized her feelings when he had left. Fell.

Died.

And she was overcome with a sense of loss…loss of the man whom she loved, the loss of someone who would never return her feelings.

He would never love her, which was why that call hurt so much. Her intention had been to make him see just how difficult it was to say the words he demanded that she say…even though she knew he wouldn't be hurt by them. She was only hurting herself.

Hurting herself.

She was always hurting herself because of this man.

Molly turned into Derbyshire proper ….she had mapped "The Old Lock Up" on her phone, and the assistant started giving directions.

It wasn't long before she saw it…old stone and brick…standing on a corner…it didn't seem like much from the outside.

Molly turned into the what appeared to be a driveway and parked the car. She took out two bags and looked at the place.

It wasn't quite as isolated as she was hoping…rather in the middle of it all…but it certainly appeared to be very charming, and she breathed in deeply. Yes. This was just the thing.

The door was heavy when she opened it, and she walked in…it was noticeably cooler inside, and the place was rather dim. There was a man standing at the front desk, glasses perched at the end of his nose, and he was staring at a computer.

Molly walked over. "Hi," she smiled.

No answer, but he did look up, taking her in from over his glasses.

"So…I'm in the Magistrate's…I spoke to you a couple of days ago?"

"Mm…." and he looked at the computer. "Miss…Hooper?"

"That's me," she cheerily replied. "You're doing renovations, was it?"

"On hiatus."

"Hiatus?"

"The two suites being renovated have a pause in the work."

She nodded. "Oh."

"Everything is in order. Here's the key. We serve breakfast at nine, and you can put in a dinner order by two pm if you aren't having dinner in town."

"Are there lots of choices in town?" she asked, a bit reservedly.

"It's town," he shrugged. "The pub next door can better answer that, I think," and he went back to his computer.

Molly stood there a second, confused about why she was confused, and turned with her bags and key.

The staircase was narrow, and she made her way slowly up to the main room. Molly set one of her bags down and opened the door.

The room was grand, in its own way. Exposed stone and a large bed adorned the place…Molly smiled. It was a bit too much for her, strictly speaking…but, she wasn't about to complain about it. The room was lovely.

"It'll do nicely," and she began to unpack.

Molly had brought her diary and a couple of books for the week…but the thought of writing in her diary was simply unpleasant. She wasn't there yet.

She laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

She hated it when she felt sorry for herself…

…and she was beginning to. Here she was, in one of the most beautiful parts of the country, alone. And depressed.

She couldn't think of one reason not to hate him.

Except that she loved him.

And perhaps that was reason enough.

Molly finally got up and went to the loo, brushed her hair, and decided to go to the pub. It would be nice to have a drink.

She deserved it.

* * *

"…and then, he says, 'Well if it's true, say it anyway.' Honestly, isn't that about the worst thing you've heard?" Molly sipped her beer.

"Did you say it?" the keep wiped the bar.

"What?"

"Did you say the words?"

Molly looked at him crookedly. "Well, that's not actually the point."

"So you did. You said 'I love you' to him, because you've been wanting to for years."

"I did say it, but I made him say it first," she took a long draught.

This made him pause. "Oh ya? He said it first? Did you use the word, 'first'?"

"I…" Molly thought. "Yes. I think so."

"Hm," and he took Molly's glass and filled it. "That's interesting."

"Is it?"

He handed it to her and nodded. "Well…it's just that…perhaps he wanted to tell you as well. Why else would he have said it, merely by wanting you to tell him, for no apparent reason?"

Molly considered this. There was no 'why,' she hadn't even considered a 'why'. She had just been so upset about being manipulated that she hadn't thought about the why…"I don't know why he did it, come to think of it…"

"You didn't ask him?"

She closed her eyes, picturing herself in her kitchen. She had said to him… _"Please don't do this…just don't do it…"_ And then… _"Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?"_

And Sherlock had very deliberately said to not ask why.

She opened her eyes, and they stung. Why had he called her with such a strange request? Why didn't he want her to, as he had said, 'Not ask why…?'

It was all very strange, now that she really thought about it.

"Hello…? You all right?"

She looked up at the keep. "Yes. Fine," and Molly put some money on the bar. "Thank you," and she left.

Molly walked the short distance to the B&B and went directly to her room.

She took out her diary, and thought that she'd write…

"It isn't like he wouldn't know…he must know. I know he knows, and he knows that I know. Why, then, would he _do_ that? It was the most horrific thing he had ever done. It's not as though I had done anything to piss him off. At least, nothing that I know of. I've been a good friend. Better, actually, than most. Because of that thing…that thing that I never admitted out loud until he made me."

She winced. He had utterly ruined the word for her. It was nearly meaningless.

And her eyes stung again.

No…she wouldn't cry. She wouldn't…

…but the tears began to fall. And she hated herself for it.

And she fell asleep.

* * *

The morning was bright, which was something.

Bright mornings were always something in England.

She stretched and got up, wrapping her dressing gown around her.

Molly looked out of the window. Perhaps she'd go for a walk that day. She was so near the Peaks…it would be a perfect outing, and something she longed to do, anyway.

She smiled and got dressed. She'd bathe later.

…and Molly remembered that there was to be a breakfast made, which made her smile and her stomach ache. All she had at the pub was some chips.

Not very good chips, at that.

So she made her way downstairs, longing for some coffee and some eggs.

There was a small parlor adjacent to the main room, and she walked in, bright eyed. There were three tables there, but the one by the window was occupied by someone holding the Times in front of their face…

…someone sitting cross legged.

…someone with black dress shoes and black trousers on.

…someone who had a Belstaff coat hanging off the back of the chair.

And she swallowed.

"You shouldn't just stand there gaping, Molly. You know it's me," and he lowered the paper, smiling slightly. "Care to sit?"

Her chin went up. "What are you doing here?" though she thought she knew the answer.

"Well, I've had a time, and I thought a holiday was in order."

"Is that so?" and she crossed her arms in front of her.

"Yes, actually. Mary died to spare my life. I nearly died…true, it was my own doing, but John needed me to do it. And then there's the whole sister thing which sent me reeling. Among other things. So yes. A long weekend was certainly called for," he paused. "Why are you here?"

"Why am I…?" she felt her hands shaking. "You can't be serious."

"Do I look like I'm serious?"

"You look like an arse."

He smiled. "A serious one, I hope."

"Please go away."

"Nope. I'm staying. Sorry," he blithely said, and he began reading the paper again.

"Please, Sherlock. I…I need…" she paused, swallowing. "I need some time. To sort things. And to…just…be away from you."

"Well, we needn't see one another, if we are very careful," he lowered the paper again. "Though I do sincerely hope that, at some point over the next few days, you'd change your mind, seeing as how we are friends."

Molly felt her blood pressure rise, and she went over to him, pulling the chair out across from him…and her anger intensified when she saw the smirk grow. "We are not friends, Sherlock. Friends don't do those things. Friends are nice to one another…"

"Nice," he pulled a face.

"Nice!" her voice was raised. "And considerate and they have fun with one another and they talk about things…" she paused. "Important things. Personal, occasionally. And things…and they go on outings. And laugh…."

"Well, by that estimation, we've done all of those things, save possibly the 'outings' element, which we can rectify today with a walk to the Peaks. I've been, and they are…"

"No! No," she collected herself, looked at her lap and took a deep breath. "We haven't, actually. Yes, we have had some funny times, but fun…? Not really. And you talk, Sherlock. And I listen. And I do things for you. And you expect me to do them. That's not really a friendship."

"Now, Molly…I do think that we've talked more than you are giving us credit for."

"…there is no us…"

"…and we are both here. Why shouldn't we spend some time together?"

She shook her head. "You just don't get it."

"What?"

She looked at him steadily. "Sherlock, right now, I rather despise you."

His eyes went a bit wide, and he blanched. "I…" he swallowed. "Molly…we need to talk."

"Nothing you could say would make me change my mind," she sat back.

He looked out of the window. "Then what if we didn't talk. We just…went to see the Peaks?"

"And not say anything to one another?" she smiled.

"That's right. I won't say a word."

"That sounds stupid."

He looked at her. "It's just as stupid for two people who have known one another for years to be the only guests in a B&B and not spend any time together."

"Why? Why are you doing this? Why are you here?"

"Because I am, and I think we should leave it at that for now," he sipped his coffee.

"Did you know I was here?"

He looked at her pointedly. "Yes."

"So you followed me."

"In a way."

"And what way is that?"

"I, too, needed a break, Molly. And as I knew you'd be here, and since you refused to speak to me a few days ago, I thought that this would be a way to…" he paused. "To confront what happened."

She shook her head. "I really hate you sometimes, you know," she sighed. "What if I don't want to talk about it? Does that matter at all?"

"Not really. But we needn't discuss it now. We can wait…I'm here until Thursday. When is your time up?"

She rolled her eyes, "Thursday," she muttered.

"Excellent. Plenty of time."

"I'm not walking with you today," and she stood.

"All right. If you insist. I'll be here when you return," and he went back to his paper.

And she was rather taken aback by how accommodating he had just been, but didn't press it and left.

How absolutely infuriating! To think, he followed her there and now he's ruined any chance she had of objectively making sense of that phone call. And indeed, their entire relationship.

She could leave and find another place…

…but no. That would make him win, again. And she'd never find a spot like that at that price.

She really wanted to punch him.

Molly got into the rental and drove to the park.

* * *

She wandered for what seemed hours…they were lovely, the Peaks, but she was very distracted and wasn't able to enjoy them fully.

…yet another thing he had ruined.

She should start a tally.

Molly went back to the car in a sour mood, slightly because she was pissed at Sherlock, more because she hadn't eaten anything.

…he had also ruined her breakfast.

She sped back to the B&B and got out, deciding to look for a place to eat. She shoved her hands in her pockets and walked around.

Why did he come? Surely there were other things that were higher on his to do list than speaking to her. More important things.

People.

She hadn't mattered to him except when he needed something…

Well, he did tell her that she mattered the most. That one time. Because she had helped him. And she counted. He had said that, too.

But perhaps he was just placating her. He was certainly capable of that.

There was a small market outside, with people buying produce. Molly meandered over and took an apple. She smiled at the lady as she payed and continued to walk along.

She headed back to the B&B and walked into the empty parlor. There was a peat fire going, and the place was filled with the scent. It wasn't unpleasant. Her home growing up had a peat fire, and it made her reminisce.

She sat and bit into the apple.

"Peat is an unusual smell to most people."

She sighed.

"Though many here in the UK are accustomed to it."

She watched as he sat across from her.

"You seem as though you have experience with it."

"Do I? How?"

"You were drawn to it."

She didn't ask how he knew that.

"How were the Peaks?" Sherlock sat back, looking at her steadily.

"Fine. I think."

"You went…"

"I'm distracted."

He nodded, and looked at his lap. "Would you care to have dinner with me later? I can place an order for us…"

"You want to have dinner with me."

"Well, you need to eat, Molly," he looked at her and smiled.

She looked at the fire, ignoring his gaze as best she could. "We aren't talking about it."

"All right," though he sounded disappointed.

And her back went up. "We will discuss it on my terms, not yours. And I'm not ready."

He nodded.

"Then I'll have dinner with you," and she stood and left.

And she went to draw the bath. It would be lovely to sit in the warm water and relax…

…and to tell herself she wouldn't think about Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3

She was biting her nails.

She really didn't do that very much anymore, but there she was, standing wrapped in a soft bath towel, looking at her clothes on the bed.

It wasn't a date, but she couldn't help but feel as though she should wear something…better.

She didn't bring "better."

She settled on a pair of jeans and a grey blouse. Molly got dressed and pulled her hair back…applied some mascara and went downstairs.

There was Sherlock, sitting in the exact same spot he was in that morning.

He was looking out of the window as the sun set, and the soft hues silhouetted his profile.

He was wearing black trousers and a dark blue shirt, and even though she was trying very hard not to, she couldn't help but feel a pang. He looked very fine.

She walked over…and finally he looked at her.

"Hello, Molly," he smiled, standing, and he pulled the chair out for her. She was a bit confused, but sat as he pushed her chair in and lingered behind her a moment…she began to turn when he went to his seat and sat down. "I hope you like scallops."

"They're good," she folded her hands in her lap.

He nodded. "Tell me about your walk…did the Peaks live up to their reputation in your mind?"

"They were very lovely. It was windy…and I felt small," she added softly.

"Large things will do that," he poured her some wine.

"You ordered wine?"

"Is that ok?"

She looked at him crookedly. "This isn't a date, Sherlock."

"Of course it isn't. This is two friends enjoying one another's company…or, two people rekindling their friendship after a hardship," he paused. "Friends drink wine together, don't they?"

"Occasionally."

"Then consider this one of those occasions, if you don't mind," he sipped his own wine.

Molly shrugged. "What did you do all day?" and she took a sip from her glass.

"I walked."

"Where?"

He cleared his throat. "Around town, mostly."

She nodded. "It's a pleasant hamlet."

He smiled at her. "It is that, yes."

"And did you talk to anyone?"

"Not really…did you?"

"No…just the bar keep last evening," and salads came.

"Yes. I met him. Ed."

"Ed?"

"The bar keep in question," and he bit into his salad. "Not terribly fresh. Disappointing, considering the market today."

Molly smiled. "You went to the pub?"

"I did."

…and she thought that the keep must have some odd idea about what was going on, considering her visit the night previous. She wasn't too fussed, though. Bar keeps were rather like therapists. He would never tell her secrets. "And do you day drink?" she smiled.

"I went for lunch. The fish and chips were recommended, but I can't say that I enjoyed them."

"No. The chips were…"

"…underdone," they both said.

And they laughed.

Sherlock took another sip. "Tell me, Molly. You were very close with your dad…"

"Yes."

"When did he pass?"

"Ah…" she took another bite. "Almost nine years ago now."

"Is it difficult to talk about?"

"Not really. I loved him very much, but I have no regrets."

"And it isn't painful?"

"No. I have happy memories of him."

He nodded, a knowing look on his face.

"What?" she took another sip of wine.

"You're very practical about death."

"Everyone dies, Sherlock. It's only difficult if there's regret." She watched his expression change, and she couldn't read what it meant. "Are you all right?"

He looked out of the window. "Yes. I'm afraid that…" he cleared his throat and looked at her. "I think that John harbors regret where Mary is concerned."

"Oh. Yes. I think I see that."

"The only thing to do is for him to make it up through Rose. He can love his daughter, and perhaps in time, learn to feel differently about his wife," he finished his salad.

Molly shrugged. "Isn't the same, really. What will happen, more likely, is he will come to terms with his regret and he will change as a result."

"What do you mean, 'change'?"

"Only that events such as that change people, and I've learned that you need to change in order to move past your regret."

He looked at her blankly. "Have you regrets, Molly?"

Her face fell, her eyes with it. "Some."

…and their dinner came.

She bit into a scallop. "It's better than the salad," she smiled.

"Not saying much," and he took a bite. "What are some of your regrets?"

She swallowed. "Must we talk about this?"

"No. But you observed that we don't talk much about you, it's always about me…so, I'm attempting to talk about you."

"Oh."

He smiled. "Regret isn't something you'd care to discuss, then?"

"Is regret high on your list of desirable subjects?" she countered.

"Well, that depends."

"On?"

"On the more general topic, because for the most part, I haven't many regrets."

She looked at him open mouthed. "You're a drug addict, Sherlock. How is it that you don't have many regrets?"

"Being a drug addict doesn't necessitate regret, Molly."

"No, but I'd imagine it leads to them," and she sipped more wine.

…and he filled her glass. "Sometimes. My regret lies more in other things."

"Such as?" and she took another sip.

He looked at her very deliberately. "Well, my treatment of you, for one."

…and she nearly choked…she drank water…

"Are you ok?" he stood.

…and she waved him off. "Fine…" she croaked. She finally caught her breath and looked at him. "You regret your treatment toward me?"

He sat back down. "Yes," he replied in low tones. "I know I haven't been the best of friends. But I hope to change that."

She was staring at him. "Really?"

"Yes. Really."

"Oh," and she was suddenly very uncomfortable…she wanted to leave…

"Molly?"

She wiped her palms on her jeans, as they suddenly had begun to perspire. "I should go."

"Why? You haven't finished…"

"I need to…" she stood. "I need to go," and she smiled. "Thanks for the dinner," and she went upstairs.

Her heart was beating very fast…she was swallowing…she opened the door to her room and closed it, leaned against it, her hands on her mouth. Why did she have that reaction?

…because he…Sherlock…just admitted that he cared about her. He regretted that he treated her poorly.

That was something, indeed.

There was a soft knock on the door, and she squeaked, jumping from it.

"Molly?"

She swallowed and rubbed her face. "Yes?"

"Can I…can you open this door?"

Oh god…"Ok…" and she did…

…and there he was, a concerned look on his face. "I needed to know if you were all right. You left quite suddenly."

"Yes. I know…" she dropped her gaze. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. But…are you? Ok?"

She shook her head. "Not really. I haven't been in a while…"

"Can I do something?" he sounded sincere.

And Molly Hooper looked at him. There were so many things going through her mind at that moment, with Sherlock Holmes standing there in the dim, a look of deep concern on his face…looking the way he looked…"Get pissed with me at the pub."

"Excuse me?" he smirked.

"I want to get drunk," and she took a sweater from the dresser. "And it's pathetic to get drunk by yourself. So…come with me," she put her sweater on.

"Ah…" he looked at her. "I'll be there in five minutes. Head over without me."

"Ok," she thought it odd, but dismissed her concern. She was getting ripped, and she didn't care. She felt as though the only way she wouldn't feel absolutely uncomfortable was if she had some alcohol.

…and he was trying.

…and there was so many things she wanted to say.

…and she had had a time of it…

So Molly headed over and got a table in the corner.

He was there in five minutes, just as he said, and walked directly to the corner.

"You didn't look around the bar," Molly said.

"I knew you'd be sitting here."

"How?"

He gave a look.

"Oh all right. Never mind," and Ed took their order.

"Tell me why you aren't ok," Sherlock began.

She shrugged. "Well, I work in a basement. Live in a basement. I have only a few friends….should I go on?"

"Your flat is excellent."

"Yes. But it's still a basement," and their drinks came.

Molly took a long draught of beer.

He was watching her when she set it down. "You're an incredible pathologist."

"Thanks," she smiled. "But…respect isn't something I care that much about. At least not in my field. I'm a female scientist. Not much in terms of respect."

"I respect your intellect."

"Thank you. That means a lot, actually."

"Then what is the problem?" he took a long sip.

"I dunno…maybe I…" she played with her napkin…she knew what the problem was…it was simply very difficult to put into words in front of him. Which was why she needed the drink. "I'm afraid I rather missed my chance."

"For?"

Molly sighed. "Look. I don't know what you want me to say. I broke off my engagement because I wasn't in love with my fiancee, and when I did that, I lost a good bit of my friends. And things just haven't been the same since."

He nodded. "Because of me," and he drank the rest of his beer.

She was horrified. "Not just you, Sherlock," she looked at him. "Can we talk about something else?"

The keep came over with tow more drinks. "What would you care to discuss?"

Molly swallowed. "Did you have sex with that woman?"

His eyes snapped to hers. "What woman?"

"That Christmas. That woman with the bashed in face."

"Oh…not that woman, no. The woman who she was supposed to be, yes."

"You did?" she whispered.

"Yess….I have had sex, Molly," he smiled.

"Oh."

"Did you think that I didn't?"

"I thought it was possible."

He shook his head. "Did you honestly believe that as a forty year old man I had never engaged in intercourse?"

"Well…"

"Unbelievable."

"It's not. You were never interested. I asked John…"

"This was a discussion," he stated.

"Yes. Once," she paused. "Hang on…three times."

"Three times you discussed with John Watson whether or not I was a virgin?"

"Maybe four," she sipped again.

He sat back. "And what did John say?"

"He said that you were odd when it came to Irene Adler, but other than that…he had no idea. And you really didn't talk about it with me, presumably because you were aware of…" she paused. She was treading dangerously close to the subject she had deemed taboo. "Aware of…how I…"

"Yes," he supplied. "I merely don't find that sort of thing terribly interesting."

"What? Love?"

"Mm…sex. And the who's of the matter."

"But…you like sex?"

"Sometimes."

She smiled…and then laughed.

"What?" but he was smiling, too.

"Sometimes?" she giggled. "You were probably not doing something right."

"I understand the mechanics, Molly…"

"But…"

"Have you _always_ enjoyed it?"

She shrugged. "For the most part."

"Come now. Meat dagger couldn't possibly…"

"He wasn't bad…" she replied with a laugh.

"Mm…now that is a glowing recommendation. 'My fiancee isn't bad in bed'…" he drank the rest of his beer. "No doubt he limited the venue to the bed," and he lifted a finger to the keep.

"And you are an expert, I take it," as the beer arrived.

Sherlock leaned in. "Not exactly, but a practical demonstration can be arranged…"

She blanched. "I…"

He sat back. "But to the point. I am no virgin, and I am heterosexual, if that was ever in question. Though I did have one rendezvous with a man. High as a kite at the time, but I suppose that should be counted."

"Wow."

"What?" he sipped.

"You're very…forthright."

"Well, I am attempting to right some wrongs here, so there's that," and he sipped.

…and so did she. "I'm sorry that I was so…mean, earlier."

"You had every right to be."

Molly shrugged. "I can't promise that I won't still be…salty…but the alcohol has a way of softening me up a bit…"

"Ed! More beer, please! And two shots of Jameson's!"

"Sherlock!" she admonished.

"What? You said you wanted to get pissed."

"Yes…but…"

"I'm helping. Isn't that what friends do?" he smiled.

"You just don't want me to be cross with you anymore."

"Well, yes. There is that," and the drinks came.

"It's gonna take more than just getting me pissed…"

"I'm aware of that. But the alcohol can't hurt."

She nodded. "You hurt me."

…and he looked at her. "Are we talking about this now?"

Molly quickly shook her head. "I can't…"

He sighed. "All right," and he downed the shot. "Here," he handed her hers.

She took it and drank…and the world seemed warm.

* * *

They were laughing at the table. Molly's eyes were streaming…and her face hurt from laughing so hard…"He did not!"

"He did!" Sherlock laughed. He rested his head on the table…"Oh this feels good."

"What does?"

"This isn't moving. And it's cool…and it isn't moving."

Molly laughed. "You already said that."

"I must mean it, then."

Her smile fell a touch. Her head fell back. "No one ever looks at ceilings."

"I do."

"Yes but you're you," and she looked at him.

His brow was furrowed. "Of course I'm me."

"How do you know, though?" she giggled.

"Who would you have me be?" he hiccoughed.

"No one," she swallowed. "I'm glad you're here."

He pointed at her. "Ha! See? You were not glad before. You wanted me to go. You told me to piss off. Not feeling the same way now…" he dropped his hand.

"Did I tell you to piss off?"

"Didn't you?"

"Well, if I did, I was right…" and Molly tried to curl up in the chair.

"You shouldn't sleep here, Holly…" he rested his head in his palm, looking at her.

"Who's Holly?"

"You. Holly Mooper."

"I don't think that's right…" and she let her feet fall to the floor.

"Come on. We need to get you back."

"We?" she looked at the ceiling again.

"You and me…I…us…"

"No us, Sher-lock…"

"Well…" he stood, unsteady on his feet. "Not yet," he held his hand out to her.

She took it, and he pulled her to standing. "What does that mean?"

"No idea," and he led her from the pub.

They walked back to the B&B, a touch unsteadily. "Don't," she said, giggling as they entered.

"Don't what?"

"Wake that man. He's scary."

"What man?" Sherlock replied with some heat.

"The clerk here. He's a miserable sod."

"He's got halitosis and a heart condition. His wife left him because he's homosexual. He is an internet porn addict and was likely annoyed that you interrupted his watching it, which is why he was short with you."

Molly stared at him as they reached the stairs, his hand firmly wrapped around her elbow. "Wow."

"Please don't," and he began to lead her up. "I'm too drunk to respond to your exclamations, and I won't remember them if you do…and they are something I think I'd actually like to remember…"

Molly shook her head and they reached her door…he was holding her hand…"Large things make other things appear small," she muttered.

"What?"

"Your hand…"

He dropped it. "Sorry…"

"Don't apologize…" she swallowed. "You said that. About the Peaks…and I…I guess I…I always just feel so…" she dropped her gaze. "Small, next to you."

She felt the tips of his fingers on her chin, and he was nudging her head up to meet his gaze. "Don't, Molly. You aren't small."

"I'm not?"

"Not even a bit. You are magnificent…"

She smiled, "I'm not."

…and he was leaning toward her…her eyes followed his mouth…and she closed them as she felt the warm press of his lips against hers…she opened her mouth slightly….and he didn't deepen it, but took her lower lip, licked it a touch, then pulled away. "You are," he dropped his hand. "Good night, Molly."

"Night, Sherlock…" and she opened her door, and backed into her room. She closed the door, and fell on her bed.

…and thought that what had just happened was worth the headache she would have in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

It hurt.

Her head…she rolled onto her back and looked at the clock. Six. Molly put her palm on her forehead and wished she was someone else.

Wine, beer, and whiskey. What was she thinking?

…she was thinking she was getting drunk with Sherlock, that's what.

And she thought about what happened just outside that door some seven hours previous.

He had kissed her…she touched her bottom lip. Why had he kissed her?

Molly swallowed and rubbed her forehead. She wouldn't think about it. It wasn't worth getting herself in a state over it. Likely didn't mean anything. He was drunk, too…

She sat up and felt her stomach…oh no…Molly covered her mouth and ran to the bathroom…

And after a few minutes, she felt much better, save her head. She went to her handbag and took out some ibuprofen…

And decided to shower.

She wondered, as she washed, if he remembered kissing her, and if it would make things uncomfortable between them…just when she wasn't quite so angry.

Because she wasn't.

She was still upset with him, but anger…not so much. She was just hurt now, and that was something she was rather used to when it came to her relationship with him. Or friendship.

Whatever the hell it was.

Molly finished up and got out. Their interactions over the years had yielded a lot of hurt for her. But, if she was honest, other things, too. She dried her hair and got some clothes out…her head was feeling a bit better.

He was funny. They laughed a lot together. He shared things about himself with her, some of which he told her he hadn't spoken with John about. There was a trust there which he himself had admitted to…

She was dressed…she pulled her hair back and sat on the edge of the bed. It was six forty five…

Molly looked at her hands…they had felt so small when he was holding her hand. And she wondered if he had ever held her hand before…she couldn't recall.

Stop it, Molly.

She stood and got a sweater. She didn't know where she was going, but it was Monday and she thought that there was probably a bakery open or something.

So she walked out into the morning…there was dew on the grass, and the sun was quickly rising.

Molly breathed in deeply…she wanted a coffee…and a nice walk.

She meandered through the place, just beginning to bustle a bit, and she found a cafe. She went in and ordered a latte and a scone, sat at the window and ate. She was feeling almost herself.

She sat back and watched the morning form before her, and thought about why she was there to begin with.

…to gain some perspective. To make sense of her feelings for him. To try and forget him…

She played with her cup. Well, she couldn't do those things if he was here with her. But she wasn't sorry he was.

What a mess.

Molly would never be able to forget him, she knew that. It was an exercise in futility to think otherwise. She wanted to because he had made it clear that he could never return her feelings.

She looked up again. She would need to confront him about the phone call. It was why he was here, after all. She couldn't keep hiding from it.

Tomorrow, she resolved. Tomorrow, she would bring it up. Today she would read and stay close to town. Maybe have lunch with him.

Molly threw away her refuse and walked back to the Old Lock Up.

She went directly to her room and laid on the bed. She took her phone out and checked messages and emails, not something she had done since she arrived on Saturday.

Nothing of consequence.

She rolled onto her side and noticed it was eight thirty. Molly's head felt better and she took her book out to read…

* * *

It was lunchtime by the time she was done, and she readied herself quickly and went downstairs.

She half expected Sherlock to be in that same spot.

But he wasn't.

Molly swallowed. What if he left? He left, because he had kissed her and he regretted it so much that he couldn't face her again…

…he wouldn't talk to her. Never come to the morgue or the lab…she was suddenly scared…she didn't want it to be done like that, but she didn't want to be beholden to someone who would bolt when something potentially embarrassing happened…

"Molly?"

She turned, and he was standing behind her, holding a paper bag. "Sherlock!" she smiled, and swallowed. "What have you got there?"

He smiled crookedly. "Highly recommended fish and chips from the place down the street. Greasy food is always a good opiate for hangovers. I got you some, if you like. We can sit in the library by the peat fire…" he turned and motioned for her to go ahead of him.

Her mouth opened slightly in surprise. "Oh," and she nodded, walking to the place she had sat yesterday.

Sherlock set the bag down and took his coat off, then fixed the fire.

Molly sat there watching him.

"Go ahead and start. I'll get some water for us and put in a tea order for later…" and he left.

She shook herself out of it and opened the bag. It smelled rather good…

"Here," he handed her some water.

"You really like fish and chips, huh?" she took the glass.

"I like really good fish and chips," he sat in the chair next to her.

Molly took out a sandwich and some chips, balancing them on her lap, and handed him the bag. "How's your head?"

"Dreadful," he took a bite. "Yours?"

"Better. I have medicine, if you like."

"Afterwards, maybe," he chewed. "Not bad," he swallowed.

"I got up pretty early and took a walk. There's a nice cafe down the way a bit," she ate a chip. "Did you eat breakfast here?"

"I woke an hour ago," he sipped some water. "So…no."

"Wow…you must have gotten it pretty hard. I passed out, and woke at six."

"I couldn't fall asleep…I believe that I actually went to sleep around six," and he bit into the sandwich again.

"My god," she chewed and swallowed. "That's awful. Why couldn't you sleep? Does alcohol have that effect on you?"

"No," he replied slowly, then looked at her. "Kissing does," and he looked away and ate some chips.

Molly felt her insides fall. What did that mean? "Oh," was her reply. "Good thing that doesn't happen much, then…" she laughed a touch.

"Yes," but he didn't look at her. "I hope that wasn't terribly untoward," he said softly.

She felt her cheeks flush. "No," she whispered. "We were drunk…those things happen sometimes."

Now he looked up. "You think that happened because of the alcohol?"

Molly shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"We need to talk," he sat back.

Her eyes went wide. "Tomorrow."

"What?"

She looked at the fire. "I decided that we should talk about those…things…tomorrow. I'd rather just have a relaxing day today."

"All right, Molly. But we need to. Before we leave here."

She nodded and ate some more of the sandwich.

"What are your plans for the day?" he took another bite.

"No plans. Nothing fixed, anyway. What about you?" she looked at him.

"Well…thought I'd explore a bit…come back and have tea…" he shrugged. "You're welcome to join me."

"I…" she smiled and looked down. "Tea later sounds lovely."

He nodded, then wrapped up the paper. "Finished?"

"Ya, thanks," and handed him her rubbish. "Want that medicine?"

He stopped mid motion…then tossed the stuff in the bin. He turned toward her. "Ok," he smiled, and picked up his coat. "Let's go," he walked up the stairs to her room.

Molly followed and took her key out, she wasn't looking at him, and she suddenly felt very tense. She opened the door…"Just in my bag here…" and without looking at him, she went to the bag, hearing him close the door. She rummaged through and found the medicine. Molly turned. "Here," she smiled, handing it to him.

And he took it, her hand along with it, and tangentially slid his finger along her wrist. He smiled. "Can I use your sink?"

She cleared her throat. "'Course," and she turned away.

She heard him take the medicine, and come back into the room. "It's a lovely room, Molly."

"Yes," and she took the bottle back, placing it in her bag. "Quite big."

And the next thing she knew, he was sitting on her bed next to her bag. "The bed is very fine. And the decor is tasteful," he looked around.

Why was he sitting on her bed? She smiled and blushed a bit. "How's yours?"

"Not like this."

"No…"

He shook his head and looked at her. "I'm not complaining," he smiled.

"Sounds like you might be dangerously close to it," she returned his smile.

"Not that," and he stood. "Not dangerously close to that…" he was close. He was looking at her very deliberately.

…and she faltered under his gaze. "Well…" she cleared her throat.

"Molly…" he whispered.

"What?" she looked at him.

"I…" his eyes fell. "I'm sorry," and he turned and went to the door. "See you at tea in a couple of hours?"

She turned and looked at him. "Yes."

…and he left.

She closed her eyes. She refused to look to into it…he was Sherlock Holmes. A strange man. And unaccustomed to…

She opened her eyes…best to not think about it at all.

So she turned on the telly and laid down.

* * *

She woke at three thirty and got up…nearly tea time. She sighed and went to the loo.

She wondered what he had been up to since he left. And she made her way downstairs. He wasn't there.

So she sat at the table by the window and looked out into the garden. It was a lovely one, nicely kept. She thought that a turn around it was called for.

Molly turned and smiled at the server as he brought the tea and some cake.

"Ah…just in time," she heard Sherlock's voice.

She looked up. "Hi," she smiled.

He sat across from her. "How was your nap?" and he took a cake after the server poured out the tea.

"How did you know…?"

He cocked a brow and sipped.

"Fine. Where did you go?"

"Oh…here and there. I got you something," he smiled and put a plastic bag on the table.

Molly looked at it. "Ah…"

"It's a bag, Molly."

"Yes…"

"You need to open it and look inside."

"Right," she looked suspiciously at it.

"It won't bite. It's a bag," he bit into the cake.

"Why did you get me something?"

He sighed. "You really are taking the fun out of this."

"Yes, but…"

"Because I thought you might enjoy these…things. I saw them and I thought, 'Molly might like this.' And so I purchased them with the hope that you would. But I see now that that was a false hope, since you seem intent on staring at it instead of opening it up."

She sighed and took the bag. "You've never bought me anything besides some crisps."

"That's not true. I paid for lunch today," he smiled.

She rolled her eyes and looked inside. "It's two books."

"Brilliant. Now, why don't you see what they are."

She reached in and pulled them out. One was, "A History of Medicine in Derbyshire," the other was a very old copy of Shakespeare's sonnets. Molly looked up at him, her brow furrowed. "How old is this?"

"The publication date is just over two hundred years ago."

"Wow," she opened the book delicately…the pages were thin, and there were drawings and renderings of the sonnets. "This must have cost a fortune."

"Mm…it wasn't so bad," he sipped. "Do you like them?'

She smiled and nodded. "Thank you so much."

"Good. I thought we might look at them…" he cleared his throat. "If you're agreeable."

She nodded. "Of course," and she set them down and sipped the tea. "It's good tea," she sounded surprised.

"Mm…"

"Sherlock?"

"What?" he looked up from his plate.

"Thank you. For everything."

He nodded, looking at her. "My pleasure."

"I want to take a walk in the garden," she stood and took the bag. "Care to join me?"

"It isn't a very large garden."

"Well, it needn't be a very long walk," she smiled. "I'll take these upstairs and I'll be right back," she smiled and left. They were lovely books. She was utterly taken aback by the gesture. She set the bag down and took her sweater, heading back downstairs. "Ready?" he was standing with his coat on by the doorway.

He nodded and opened the door. They walked over to the gate and he opened that for them, and Molly walked inside. It was more dim from the low hanging trees…the blooms were fragrant and succulent.

"I guess you don't have a case," she observed, hands in pockets.

"Oh no. I've been working on one."

"Here?"

"Yesss…Lestrade has been sending photos. Nearly solved."

"Oh," and she walked over to a small pond, squatting and touching the warm water. "You seemed like you didn't have anything going on."

"Well, when I've been with you, I haven't been thinking about it," he sat on a bench by the pond.

"You aren't here _for_ the case, are you?" she looked at him.

"No. I'm here for you. And a respite."

"From?"

"As I said, many things."

Molly nodded and stood. "You've been through much, too, haven't you?" she sat next to him.

"Well, yes. I suppose so."

She looked at him. "Are you ok?"

And he looked at her. "Not really."

She sighed. "No," and she sat back and looked at the sky. "It's actually good that you came here with me."

"Is it?"

She looked at him and nodded. "Yes. Puts things into perspective."

"Glad to help," and Sherlock sat forward, hands on knees, and folded his hands. "I need some perspective, I think."

"Can I help you?" she almost hated herself for offering, but she couldn't stop herself.

"Yes," he said without looking at her.

"How?"

The sun had just begun its descent…the sky was turning a soft pink. "You're doing it, Molly."

"I'm helping you?" she smiled.

…and he looked at her, and nodded. "By agreeing to spend time with me here, and by promising to talk with me about that phone call."

"Oh."

He smiled and took her hand. "Let's take a look at those books," and he pulled her to standing.

She nodded and allowed him to guide her to her room. She opened the door and went inside. Sherlock sat at the table by the window and Molly took the books out and sat across from him. He took the medicine one first.

"I thought that this was interesting…a catalogue of country doctors," and he pages through.

"I don't know much about them…"

"Well, they were more informed in general than people give them credit for."

Molly nodded. She moved her chair closer to him to gain a better view. And they looked at it for a while, talking about some of the pictures and the remedies employed by the doctors.

After a while, Sherlock took the sonnets. "Are you familiar with them?" he opened the book.

"A bit."

"How much is 'a bit'?"

"Ah, well…I've studied them."

"Have you read them for fun?"

"Here and there…" she was a bit uncomfortable.

He smiled at her. "More here than there, perhaps?"

Molly shrugged. "Do you know them?"

"I have most of them memorized."

"What."

He laughed. "When I would be very high, I would often memorize Shakespeare."

"Do addicts normally memorize Shakespeare when they're high?" she sardonically asked.

"No," and he paged through. "Most people are only familiar with a few, but there is a cornucopia of verse here begging to be read.

 _When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,_

 _I all alone beweep my outcast state,_

 _And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,_

 _And look upon myself, and curse my fate,_

 _Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,_

 _Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,_

 _Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,_

 _With what I most enjoy contented least;_

 _Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,_

 _Haply I think on thee, and then my state,_

 _Like to the lark at break of day arising_

 _From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;_

 _For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings_

 _That then I scorn to change my state with kings_."

"Wow."

"Sonnet twenty nine," and he looked at her, a brow raised, and then went back to the book. "I hope you enjoy it," he handed it to her.

"Did you memorize the plays as well?"

"Some of them."

"Which ones?"

"Ah..Hamlet. Henry the Fourth, both parts. King Lear…"

She smiled. "Wow."

"So…" he clapped. "What time is it?"

"It's…" she looked over at the clock. "It's five thirty."

He nodded. "Well…dinner is soon…" he cleared his throat. "Did you have any plans to eat?"

"You mean, other than eating?"

"Yes. Besides that," he smiled.

"Not really."

"Would you…" he swallowed. "Would you care to come with me to a restaurant just down to road?"

"Is it formal?"

"No."

She shrugged, smiling. "That sounds nice. What time?"

"Bout an hour? I'll meet you at the front door."

Molly nodded. "Ok."

Sherlock stood. He paused, looked around a second, then left.

…and Molly thought that that exchange sounded suspiciously like he was asking her out on a date.


	5. Chapter 5

She felt like she had been telling herself a lot that 'this wasn't a date,' since Sherlock showed up in Derbyshire.

This gave Molly pause. Why was she feeling as though he was making advances? It was impossible…it just was.

She got dressed, and this time, she was wearing black. Molly didn't often wear black, but she felt compelled to…so on went her dark jeans and her black cashmere sweater. She pulled her hair on top of her head. She applied some makeup…nothing too much, but enough to mark that she cared.

Because she did.

And if nothing else, it emboldened her.

She made her way downstairs, and there he was, scrolling through his phone.

He looked up at her as she held his gaze.

And she saw him swallow. "Molly," he said.

"Hi Sherlock," she replied as casually as she could. She approached him and smiled…he was wearing all black as well. "Black must be the color this evening."

He shrugged. "It's both casual and formal enough that it's passable in almost any environment."

"Exactly," she smiled.

He looked at her, and returned her smile. "Shall we?" and he opened the door.

Molly walked out. The evening was cool, but not overly so. She looked over, and he was wearing his Belstaff, collar up, hands in the pockets. Molly quickly looked away and crossed her arms in front of her. "What is the fare?"

"Nothing ethnic…a regular bistro place. I saw it today on my walk."

She didn't respond.

He cleared his throat. "And have you recovered enough from your hangover that you are prepared to have some wine with dinner?"

"I guess so," she kicked a stone. "You?"

"Oh, a hangover is hardly anything. I can manage."

She looked at him. "Yeah…I guess that withdrawal is pretty intense, and a hangover pales in comparison."

"Succinctly observed, Molly."

"How many times have you gone through it?"

"What? Withdrawal?"

"Yeah…"

He stopped and pointed. "Here it is," and he opened the door.

Molly walked in; the place was dim, beset by candles…though it wasn't really formal in the most strict of senses. She was charmed, though, and she smiled.

They were seated in a far corner.

Sherlock took a wine list and perused.

…Molly waited for him to answer. "So…?"

"Hm?" he looked at her, brow furrowed. "Oh," and he put down the menu. "Ah…red?"

"Fine."

"Withdrawal. Ok…" he sat back. "Mm…perhaps a dozen times."

"Wow," and the server took their wine order. "A dozen…isn't it painful?"

"Yes."

"Why do you do it? Aren't you ever scared?"

He considered her for a moment. "Occasionally…but overdosing is a bit more terrifying. Withdrawal is a journey. Overdosing is a brick wall."

Molly looked at him, seeing him a bit differently. "That's intense."

He shrugged. "Overdosing is painful and it…it is sometimes revealing."

"How?"

"Difficult to explain, really. But I have overdosed and travelled to strange places."

The wine came and the server poured out two glasses. "I can only imagine."

He smiled. "Trust you for that."

"Why, though? Why do you do it?"

He sighed and dropped his gaze just as the server took their orders. "I…" he ran his hand through his hair and then looked at her. "Molly, there are things I want you to understand, but I'm afraid that these things might lead to the conversation you wish to have tomorrow. Now, I'm completely fine with starting this and returning to it at a later time, but you should know that we will be treading very close…"

Molly's face flushed slightly. "Ok."

"Ok…" he cocked a brow. "Ok, you want me to start to explain?"

She nodded.

And Sherlock cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table. "I'm a drug addict."

She shrugged and smirked a touch.

"…because I have a sister."

"You have a sister?"

"Yes. The youngest of the three of us. And she…isn't well. She…" he shifted… "She murdered my best friend when I was a child. And I repressed that memory," he swallowed. "I think we should stop there."

She was staring at him. "So…that's why you're a drug addict," Molly shook her head, and felt some tears threaten. "I'm so sorry….that's awful. And it actually makes complete sense."

"Does it," it wasn't a question, and he seemed to be uncomfortable.

"Sherlock, look at me."

He raised his eyes.

"If that's true, and I want to hear more, then it's hardly surprising. It's shocking to hear. And I can only imagine what it's like… then you needed somehow to cope."

"I chose heroin."

Molly nodded. "Well, some do. But it's right scary, Sherlock. It's scary to watch."

"I know. John told me."

She smiled, and their food came. Molly wasn't hungry so much anymore…but she took a bite of her chicken anyway. "It's not bad," and she looked at him. He was staring at her. "What?"

He looked down. "Nothing. I suppose I never thought much about what my using did to others…" he played with his pasta. "…Mycroft would make me write a list of everything that I took…he would sit with me for hours…"

Molly swallowed. "He did?"

And he nodded, looking out of the window. "It's a selfish, solitary life. And I really owe my continued existence to Mycroft."

She felt her mouth go dry…he was speaking so cavalierly about his own death. "You prefer a solitary life, Sherlock."

"Do I?" he looked at her.

"Don't you?"

"I don't think so."

She cocked her head. "There's John…"

"Yes."

"…and Mrs Hudson."

"Mm."

"…And I suppose you care about Greg…"

He smiled at her. "Lestrade," he paused. "And you, Molly."

"Me," she replied, eyes falling to her plate. "And Mary, of course."

He looked out of the window. "That's complicated, but yes…"

"How?"

"Well, she shot me. And then she died saving me from a bullet."

Molly shifted. "So intense…"

He shrugged and took a bite. "It was, yes. But I think that we are beyond it now."

"You and John?"

"Me and John," he nodded.

She shook her head and sipped some wine. "We are friends, right?"

"Mm… yes."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are we friends? I'm not like those people at all…"

His brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't know. Never mind," she was sorry she said it, but blurted it out. It was something always at the back of her head and drank more wine.

"Are you asking me why I care about you?"

"Sorta."

"Molly…that's just…"

"Don't answer it. Stupid question," she laughed nervously and took another bite.

"We are dancing around the reason I'm here again…sure you want to wait?"

Molly quickly nodded…she wanted this conversation to be on her terms. And even though she was devolving into some old insecurities, she would have some say in this. She had to…and she was sorry she had asked him that last question already. "I think so. I just need to…" she sat back with her glass. "I need to not think about it."

"But aren't you…? Thinking about it? Isn't that why you're here?"

She swallowed, looked at him, and nodded. "In a way. I came here to forget."

"About?" he took another sip.

"You."

He stopped. He placed the glass down. "Is that what you want?"

"I thought so."

"And do you still?"

"Not sure."

His mouth set. "I need to know, Molly. I won't bother you if you do."

She sighed. It could be done right then…no more drama…no more worries…no more Sherlock…"No," she whispered. "I don't."

"Ok," he replied softly. He cleared his throat. "How's your dinner?"

She nodded and took another bite. She could feel her throat sting and she wanted to run. "I'm rather full…" she poured herself more wine.

"Are you ok?"

She nodded and took a deep breath. "Fine," she smiled briefly and took a long sip.

"We can go if you want."

"Sherlock…you need to know that this is awkward for me. I…came here to try and deal with things, your things, and then you show up here. And it's just so strange…and now I'm confused…because you're being attentive and even a bit nice…"

"Don't ever call me nice, Molly," he smiled.

"Well…whatever you are being. And it's so different and I'm just…"

He held his finger up for the server. "Check," he said.

Molly covered her face with her hands. "We don't need to leave," she said, taking them away.

"We do," and he gave the server cash. "Let's go."

He opened the door for her and led her out into the night, fully fallen now. There was a warm breeze, and she longed for another sweater, since she was always rather cold. She chalked it up to being in the morgue so much.

And her basement flat. There was always that.

He led her to the garden next to the Old Lockup. "In here," he opened the gate.

She walked in behind him, and looked up at the sky, somewhat obscured by the trees…there were pixels of light throughout the canopy, and tiny wisps of cloud illuminated slightly by lights below. It was lovely. "Why are we here?" she asked. She hadn't the wherewithal to bother asking before.

"It's a nice spot," he put his hands in the pockets of his coat, and shifted his weight.

She didn't respond, and sat on the bench. "You are preparing to tell me something important, aren't you?"

He sighed. "I want to, but I'm afraid that you'll be cross."

"Why?"

"Because…" he swallowed. "Molly…" he looked at her intently.

"What?" she sat down under his intense gaze.

"I…" he shook his head and went to her, sitting next to her, but facing her.

She moved from him slightly. "What is it?"

"You really don't know, do you?"

She shook her head.

…and he took her head in his hands and kissed her…deeply…she didn't respond at first, but then she did…his hands went to her shoulders, holding tightly, and he moaned…

…and that took her out of it…

Molly pulled away. She was breathing deeply, she swallowed and looked at him. And her eyes welled with tears.

His breath was coming quick. He searched her face…"What are you thinking?" and he let go of her.

"What was that? What's happening?" her brow furrowed. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"

"Molly…I…" he swallowed. "I love you."

And her face fell. "How dare you," and she got up and went into the B&B.

And she was shaking as she went to her room. She felt ill…she felt used. She felt as though she was just an elaborate…what was the word he had used…? Experiment…

She fell onto her bed. She curled into a ball.

…and she fell asleep.

* * *

She woke and felt cold. She was still in her jeans and she had to use the toilet…she looked at the time, it was three thirty am.

Molly got up and went to the loo, took her clothes off and washed her face. She went to the dresser and took out some pajamas…her dressing gown…pulled her hair down.

And she looked at the door.

How could he? …and a fresh wave of nausea washed over her.

She went to the door. She shouldn't go. She should never talk to him again. She should go home and forget everything.

…but she loved him. She loved him.

She loved him.

Molly opened the door and crept down to the second floor where his room was. The door was open a notch.

She pushed it open, and felt a cool breeze brush her face.

She tiptoed in, and saw him slumped in a chair by the window. Molly pulled her dressing gown close and walked over.

He was still in his clothes, and his coat was on the floor…the curtain was blowing softly…he wasn't asleep…

…he looked at her…

…the light was blue…it illuminated his face…"Are you real?"

She nodded.

'You don't look real."

"I am."

He shook his head.

"What do I look like?"

He considered this a moment. "A nymph."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"No idea," and a tear fell down his cheek.

"You're not ok…" she pulled a chair across from him and sat down. There were papers on the table...music...he had been composing.

"No…but I'm not concerned about me."

Molly looked out of the window. "I don't know why I'm here. I'm supposed to be angry and not speaking to you."

"I know. You said, 'how dare you'."

"I should have said 'fuck off'."

He smiled a touch, but it appeared to be painful. He swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"For which thing?"

"For…for not abiding by your rule. You hadn't asked for much."

Her head dropped. "I'm always chasing you…"

"I followed you here."

"Why?"

He cleared his throat. "It's Tuesday. Are you ready to talk?"

She sat back, her heart pounding…the room, dark and cool…

She nodded.


	6. Chapter 6

So many things were going through her mind…none of which made much sense. Her heart was whispering that he had been telling her the truth in the garden, but her heart had failed her so many times that she couldn't reconcile that particular thought.

But here Molly was, at nearly four in the morning, and she was waiting for Sherlock Holmes to explain himself.

Why he had hurt her. Why he was there…why…?

He sat forward and folded his hands. "Where had I stopped at the restaurant?"

"With your sister?" she replied.

He nodded.

"Ah…she murdered your best friend."

"Victor Trevor," he said to no one.

…and Molly didn't respond.

Sherlock's head fell and he ran his hands through his hair. "She murdered him, and because I was unable to come to terms with that, I changed my memories. In my mind, Victor was my dog I never had, Redbeard," he looked out of the window. "I couldn't deal with reality. I became addicted to heroin, and…" he swallowed. "And I kept away from people, because I never stopped understanding that for me to grow close with someone meant that their lives were in danger."

She was emerging from a strange place as she heard his voice…what exactly was he saying…? He was avoiding personal relationships…? Molly swallowed.

He sat back and looked at her. "Molly…that day…just over a week ago…when I called you…Euros had John, Mycroft and I in the insane asylum she had been in, and had taken it over. She was having us…" he paused. "Me…solving puzzles. She had murdered four people, convinced another person to commit suicide…" he shook his head.

"Euros?" she swallowed.

"My sister," he replied. "Molly…" he whispered. "She told me that she was going to blow your flat up if I didn't get you to say…to say…"

She paled. "I love you…" she replied, and closed her eyes. And it all made sense now. The phone call. His desperation. The way he frequently had changed his tone…everything. And her imagination had really gotten the better of her…And she wanted to leave. She didn't want to hear anymore…"Stop…" she said.

"What?"

"Please…just stop. I can't listen to any more of this. I understand. You were trying to save my life. And you know that you hurt me, so you're here to make it up. I understand…" she ended softly.

"No, that's only a very small part of it," he said.

"Well, I get it now," she went to stand.

"What are you doing?"

"Leaving, Sherlock. I'm tired."

He stood with her. "Sit. You haven't heard all of it…"

"I'm not a dog," she crossed her arms. "You can't just command me to do something, and if I want to leave…"

"You can't," he reached for her. "Please…just give me a few more minutes. Please."

She looked at his face, desperation etched in his features. Molly nodded and sat, not looking at him. She was tired of this conversation and it was four in the morning…she didn't think it would be going anywhere.

He sighed and sat across from her once more. "I understand why you would think that. And I thought that at first, too. I thought that I was saving your life. But there was never any explosives, Molly. And I…you…I said those words. And I meant them."

Her eyes snapped to his. "What?"

"I meant them. I meant it. I love you," he choked a bit. "Do you…?" he paused. "What are you thinking?"

Her mind was blank. She couldn't think. "I'm tired."

"That's all you have to say?"

"I…" she thought that she should say something. "I…" but she couldn't think what.

"Stay with me, Molly," he reached over and took her hand. "Just to sleep…I'm so tired…and even if you despise me in the morning, I'll risk it…I've longed…" he swallowed. "And it's only sleep…I promise."

She looked at the bed and then back at him. She nodded…mostly because she couldn't think…she was delirious. And she walked over to the bed and laid down, her back facing the side where Sherlock had space. She heard him rustling and then felt the bed dip. She felt her eyes drooping…but her heart was pounding. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Did you say that you loved me?"

"I did."

"Ok," and she pulled the blanket up around her shoulders, and fell asleep.

* * *

…and she woke.

There was a dull light feathering through the curtains. She was momentarily confused…but the cool air reminded her…

And she turned over.

He was still sleeping…

This wasn't how she would have imagined waking up next to Sherlock Holmes. She had envisioned intertwined limbs and her face on his chest.

Instead, she was fully clothed, and he had a blanket wrapped tightly around him… and there was a considerable distance between them.

And he had told her that he loved her…but…her brow furrowed…how was that possible? How could he love her? He was Sherlock…he didn't get involved.

He loved John, though. That much was certain.

And Mrs Hudson. She believed that he loved her…rather like another mother.

She looked at him again and started to sit up. He must have meant as a friend. That was it. And she could almost believe it.

Almost.

She knew…believed beyond a doubt that he cared about her. He had proved that countless times.

But to love her…even as a friend…that was a bit more difficult to believe.

She got up and went to the window, looking out into the waking morning…she pulled her dressing gown close…the curtains were blowing softly in the breeze.

She heard movement behind her…and she turned. Sherlock was looking at her, sitting up. He had no shirt on…she had assumed he had gone to bed clothed. Molly didn't speak, but she went to the loo and brushed her teeth with his toothbrush. It felt oddly intimate.

When she went back in the room Sherlock was leaning against the headboard, but other than that, he hadn't moved. He was staring at his hands, folded on his lap.

Molly slowly walked back around the bed, wrapping her dressing gown close, and sat at the table facing him.

"I assume that you despise me now," he said.

She swallowed, and looked at the floor. "I don't really know what to say."

"I can think of a few things."

Molly looked at him. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you doing this to me? Why did you ask me to stay with you?" she felt a lump rise in her throat. "I should have left. I should have never allowed this…"

"Were you paying attention at all last night? Or rather, this morning?"

"Yes."

"Then that should answer your question."

"It isn't possible," she choked.

"What do you mean?"

"What you said. It's simply not possible. I don't believe it."

He sighed and rubbed his face. "Molly…"

"Don't placate me, Sherlock Holmes. I've lived for years… _Years_ with this. And now…now you decide out of nowhere that you love me? Love me how? We are close friends, and that took ages…"

"And I just realized the depth of my feeling," he countered, his voice slightly elevated.

"What?" she whispered. "What do you mean?"

"You aren't this thick. I am speaking in plain enough terms."

"And now you insult me. Not a great response."

He sighed and looked out of the window. "I don't know how else to explain. I love you. I wasn't lying when I said it on the phone."

She stared at him.

He looked back at her. "Molly?" she watched as his eyebrows went up his forehead.

"That's what this is? You're here to tell me that you weren't lying," her voice was raised slightly.

"That's…right?" he sounded nervous, and was still in the bed.

Molly swallowed and shook her head…looked out of the window. Tears started to slide down her face. "This isn't right. It's not."

She heard him behind her…"It's the only thing that is."

"I don't understand."

"I left Sherrinford without anything but a sister I didn't know, a best friend, a brother incapable of affection…and the knowledge that I loved you. That was all. And I had hurt you, countless times. I needed to speak to you to make it right…"

She turned, and saw him there, in strange pajama pants and no shirt. "How do you mean?"

"How do I mean what?"

"How do you love me?"

"I…" his brow furrowed. "I don't understand."

"I don't know how to explain it…as in, a friend? Better than John? Did you tell John that you loved him?"

He smiled slightly. "Different from John."

"Different," she replied.

He took a step toward her. "Think, Molly. I kissed you last night in the garden. Would I have kissed John like that?"

Her eyebrows went up. "Some may think that you would," she smiled slightly.

"Do you?"

She shrugged…"Dunno."

He rolled his eyes and looked at her. "No. I wouldn't have done."

"So…" she blanched.

"Yes," he took another step.

"Oh my god."

"Yes," he paused. "But…not really," he added, smirking.

She shook her head and swallowed. "You love me…"

"Yes," he stopped.

"As in…you are in love with me?" she whispered.

He nodded.

She backed away and brought her hands to her mouth. Molly shook her head and turned toward the window, crying.

"What are you thinking? I'm finding it almost impossible to read you now."

"Really?" her reply was somewhat sarcastic. "Now it's difficult to read me?" she wiped her cheeks and turned again toward him.

"I don't know why…there's a block where you're concerned. Only certain things register."

Many things were going through her head at the same time…she should run. She should kiss him. She should slap him. "I'm thinking that I should leave."

"Leave?" his voice was low…it almost cracked, and he took a step toward her…he was directly across from her now. "I was right. You despise me."

"No, Sherlock, I don't despise you. But I…I'm so confused… I think I need some time to think about this. You've had time…" she accused.

He held his arms, eyes wide and nodded. "I have," he paused. "Do you want me to leave Derbyshire?"

She looked at him… he was so lost. So desperate. She had never seen him look…no. When he was about to jump. To fall…he looked like he did in front of her then. "No," she replied with a faint smile. "But I'm going to my room now."

He nodded.

"You can't come with me."

He nodded again. "What will you do today?"

"Not sure," her gaze fell.

"Can I…can we take a walk? Or a drive?"

Molly shrugged. "I guess so. But in a few hours."

Sherlock nodded, then stepped aside so that she could pass. "I'll come and get you round about eleven…?"

"Ok," and she walked passed him, out of the room, and up the stairs.

…she fell asleep once more before her head hit the pillow.

* * *

Molly woke and felt strange. She felt as though things were topsy turvy…things were amiss. Her reality had been upended…her understanding of her life was awry.

She got up and showered, trying desperately not to think about anything save cleaning herself.

She was mildly successful in that endeavor.

She got dressed and looked in the mirror.

Molly closed her eyes…everything she had dreamed of was happening. He was in love with her. Something that she never dreamed possible was reality.

Why was she so hesitant?

She opened her eyes…because she couldn't believe it. When something is so dear, yet so impossible, one makes oneself give it up. To have it handed over is unsettling.

And that was what she was. Unsettled. She had given it up. Even though she had thought that she had done when she accepted Tom's proposal, she hadn't really. As soon as Sherlock came back she realized she hadn't gotten over him.

And she never would, because she was in love with him.

But that didn't mean that she needed to pine away, it merely meant that she would be alone. And that was how she coped.

Molly went back into the bedroom and looked at her phone…ten am.

She checked her messages and emails…nothing, really.

And she sat on the edge of the bed. She had agreed to spend time with him that day, mostly to erase that look from his face. She couldn't stand to look at him like that.

What on earth would she say to him? She was mentally tried…

Maybe she wouldn't say anything, and make him talk…

…but that was what she always did.

She went downstairs and had some breakfast…not having eaten much dinner, she was hungry. No Sherlock, which was fine.

Molly went back upstairs and laid on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her heart was pounding…and she thought of how he kissed her in the garden. There was much passion, something she hadn't even thought he was capable of.

And she turned on her side. Maybe she was being silly.

No. She had spent so much time in quiet desperation, it would take time to get out of it. If even a little.

There was a soft knock at the door, and she sat up quickly, took a pillow, held it against her, as she swallowed nervously. "Come in," she called, and hated that she was nervous.

The door opened slowly, and Sherlock came in. He smiled at her. "I'm a bit early."

"Are you? I hadn't noticed the time."

"It's before eleven."

"I gathered," she smiled.

And this seemed to lighten him, he returned her smile. "Where would you like to go?"

Molly shrugged. "Dunno."

"Well, we could take a drive south to Coventry. It's about an hour and a half drive."

"What's in Coventry?" she asked.

"There is a legend surrounding the place. I can tell you on the way if you like," he smiled very softly.

She considered this. It was a day trip, to be sure. Three hours in the car with Sherlock…Molly looked down and played with the pillow case.

"Or not…" he said.

"No it's fine. Let's do it," and she stood and got a sweater and her bag.

"Excellent," he stood aside as she passed. "Your car or mine?"

"Mine," she said without thinking. If she was driving, the pressure to speak would be on him. They left the Old Lock Up and Molly took her keys out. They got into the car. "Co pilot?" she smiled as she turned the car on.

"Absolutely…though I am accustomed to having a co pilot, it'll be a refreshing change," and he looked out of the window as Molly pulled out of the lot.


	7. Chapter 7

She was biting her nails as she sped along.

She felt nervous…and despite her attempts to quell those feelings, she couldn't. Her mind raced and her heart was simultaneously heavy and light.

Heavy, because he loved her.

Light, because he loved her.

"Molly?"

"Hm?" her hand fell, her eyes remained fixed on the road.

"What are you thinking?"

She glanced over. He was looking at her very intently. "Nothing, really."

"You're biting…no. Devouring your nails."

"It's a nervous habit," she smiled at him…

…he rolled his eyes. "Really?" it was sarcastic. "Never would have guessed. Why are you nervous?" he smiled. "It's just me. Just an outing."

"It isn't though," she swallowed.

"What do you mean? Of course it is."

"Well, no. Everything's changed, Sherlock. And I'm trying to understand it," she paused. "Maybe you should drive. I'm too distracted," she looked at him. "Ok?" His gaze fell and he nodded…she pulled over and they switched. Molly settled in, and looked out of the window. "You said there was a legend surrounding Coventry…?"

He cleared his throat. "Yes…ah…during World War Two there were plans intercepted by the allies. They knew that Germany was planning on bombing Coventry, but in order to keep the fact that plans were known and code was broken, they allowed it to happen. England believed that in allowing this attack, Germany would never suspect that they had broken the code."

"Wow," she was staring at him.

"Yes," he looked over and smiled. "What do you think of that, Molly?" he went back to the road. "It's an age old question, isn't it? Does one fight for the greater good, even if horrible things happen along the way?"

She shook her head and looked out of the window. "Morality…it's very sticky."

"Yes. It can be. Though most pretend it isn't."

"Why do you reckon?"

"Because most are vapid and would prefer not to dwell on such things."

"Do you think about those things, Sherlock?" she looked at him.

"I do…" he paused. "But I also recognize the futility in it, because answers to questions like those depend largely on the intelligence of others, and I've seen little evidence that that exists."

Molly smiled. "Smug," and she giggled.

"Funny?" he cocked a brow, glancing at her again.

"Are you always the smartest in the room?"

"Not at all. Mycroft is more intelligent. Euros…"

"Your family, then."

"…And you are somewhat on par, I think," he looked at her and winked. "Intelligence, I've learned," he focused on the road once more. "Isn't the essence of life. Difficult to learn, but true."

"What is?"

"Perhaps I'll save that for later," and he rounded a bend in the road.

Molly looked out of the window. "I think that they were likely right in allowing the bombing to take place…but they should have emptied the city as best they could beforehand. Covertly, if possible."

"They attempted to evacuate right before. Not many got out in time."

She closed her eyes. "Awful."

"Yes."

She opened them again. "How much further?"

"Mm…'bout half an hour."

She nodded and let her head fall back…enjoying the scene as it passed.

They arrived just past lunch. Sherlock parked the car and looked around…Molly was watching him. "Hungry?" she asked.

He nodded…

"No fish and chips, if you don't mind," she smiled, pulling her sweater on.

"Haven't eaten today, so something hearty would be preferred," and he began to walk.

Molly followed, then caught up. "You eat a lot more than John ever said. He claimed you hardly eat, and he was often worried about you…and I can't say that I ever saw you with much of an appetite."

"Here…" he was standing in front of a cafe. It appeared to be casual and unremarkable. "They have excellent stew and horrific fare otherwise," he opened the door for her.

"They do?" she whispered, looking around.

A lady came up to them. "Two?"

Sherlock nodded, and they were seated by the window. He folded his hands on the table, not taking his coat off, and looking around.

Molly took out a menu. There were a couple of stews, just as he said. And sandwiches, some salad…

"Get the stew," he smiled as she looked up.

"Which?"

"Doesn't matter. They're likely all good."

"How do you know?"

"It's an elderly couple who owns the place. They attempt to keep up with trends as best they can, but stew is something they always have made. Generations have used the recipes, and they survived due to their quality."

Her mouth hung agape. "You've never eaten here before, have you?"

"Never," and he took his coat off as the server handed them water.

They ordered their stew, beef and chicken, and Molly looked over. "Well?"

"Well what?" his brow furrowed. "Oh! I eat, Molly. Of course I do. John never knew every single thing about me," and he sat back.

"He knows you better than anyone, doesn't he?"

"No."

"No?" she smiled.

"You do."

"Me…?" her hands fell into her lap.

"I told you things I never told John. I trusted you with one of the most important and dangerous things I ever did. I love John, and he understands me very well. But you know me," he sipped his water.

Molly looked out of the window. "What things did you tell me and not John?"

"Mostly my feelings about things. When he married Mary. Things around that time…though…" he cleared his threat and she looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing," he smiled. "I told you that I had had sex with Irene Adler."

"Yes. I remember. That was uncomfortable," she played with her napkin.

"Sorry. I wanted to tell someone…someone who wouldn't judge me," he shrugged.

"Really? You were worried about that?" the stew came.

"I was where John was concerned. Can't explain it…I preferred to keep certain things from him," and he took a bite. He looked at her and nodded. "Good, no?"

She smiled and nodded. "Such as, yes. You eat and sleep?" she laughed.

"Well, I never hid those facts. He chose not to see them. And yes. It is true that I sleep and eat less when I have a case on, but I'm still human. I'd fall over if I didn't give my body sustenance and rest."

"Sometimes…sometimes John would text me or show up at Bart's, and he'd be so worried. Or annoyed. Angry, even. You caused him so much anguish."

"John is a good and dear friend."

"He stopped when you fell…"

Sherlock looked at her. "Altogether? He never sought you out again?"

"No…occasionally, after you returned. But he had Mary then."

He nodded. "I used to think that he was attracted to you," he smiled.

"Not really," Molly returned his smile.

"He might have been…but, perhaps he kept away because of my disappearance and subsequent heartache."

"Sherlock…" her eyes fell.

"Hm?" he took another bite.

"When did you…?"

He sat back. "You want to know when I started falling in love with you."

She blushed and nodded. "Silly, I guess. But it still doesn't make sense to me," she still wasn't looking at him directly.

He took a deep breath. "You know that I didn't discover any of this until that phone call."

She nodded, now looking at him.

"It's impossible, then, to gain a real timeline…but I think, somehow, I always knew. Which was why I attempted to sabotage nearly every romantic relationship you had."

Her eyes went wide. "What?"

He played with his stew, and took another bite. "Think, Molly. I was dismissive when I was being generous, and otherwise hostile to every boyfriend you ever had…almost from the very beginning of our friendship."

She looked out of the window, and then closed her eyes…and the Christmas party swam before her mind's eye…"That Christmas…"

"Yes, though I had hoped you had forgotten that."

She opened her eyes and looked at him. "Well, you both insulted me beyond the pale and you kissed me. Difficult to forget, Sherlock."

He nodded. "I was jealous."

She shook her head. "Unbelievable. And you didn't realize that was what was going on?"

"No. I was closed off where you were concerned," he sighed. "Molly…you recall what I told you last night? About people whom I cared for being in danger?"

Her brow furrowed and she nodded.

"Well, if you look at it that way, I was protecting you without realizing it."

Her mouth went dry.

"…I couldn't care about you knowingly…and my growing regard was something that I needed to ignore, for my love meant that you might die. I didn't know this consciously, of course."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"That's a lot to process, Sherlock. That's all I've got right now."

He nodded. "Finished?"

"Yes. It was rather good."

"Never doubt me, Molly Hooper," and he stood.

"Oh, I learned that long ago…" she wiped her mouth and stood, going to the door as he paid. She thought that perhaps she should offer to pay for something, and then decided she'd pay for dinner that night.

"Well…there's a museum…" he said as he left the cafe. "Want to go there?"

"Ok."

"You like museums?" and he began to walk.

"Yes. Just…I don't get to go much."

"Well, here's your opportunity," he smiled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Don't you ever get hot?"

"Excuse me?"

"I don't think that I've ever seen you outside without that coat on," she laughed.

"It's my coat," he replied, as though that explanation was sufficient.

"It's also eighteen degrees. And we are walking. Surely you get overheated…"

"Not from my coat, Molly," he glanced, a wry smile on his face. His voice fell a touch. "It took much this morning for me not to kiss you as you stood by that window, the breeze in your hair…"

"What?" she replied, disbelief laced in her voice.

He stopped and looked at her. "I felt compelled…but stopped myself since you were in a bit of a state."

"To kiss me?"

"Bit more, then…"

Her mouth fell. This was Sherlock…Sherlock Holmes… talking about being sexually attracted to her. To _her_. "Thank you for…for…controlling yourself?" she ended very deliberately and slowly.

"You are lovely, Molly. It wasn't easy."

And her gaze fell, she was intensely uncomfortable…she wrapped her arms around herself…

"Are you ok?" he touched her elbow.

"No," and she turned away from him and continued to walk toward the museum.

"What did I say?"

"You're talking about… _sex_ …" she hissed.

"Yes? Don't people do that? You did…with Tom…" she noticed his wince.

"But you're talking about it…with me, Sherlock…"

He stopped. "Molly. When one is in love with someone, one desires their physical self as well," he paused. "At least, that's how I'm experiencing it. Never been before."

"You've never been in love?" she knew this, but desired to hear it nonetheless.

"Nooo…you're the first."

She smiled and nodded, she shrugged. "Maybe it's just odd for me to hear."

"Well," he stepped toward her. "Perhaps we should practice more…" and he lifted her chin and kissed her mouth very softly.

She pulled away, unsure what to do. "You're making fun."

"I would never," he dropped his hand, smiling.

Molly rolled her eyes. "Let's go," and she turned and continued to walk.

They walked up to the museum…wasn't a terribly big place…and went inside and paid the admission. Sherlock took a pamphlet and skimmed through. "There's art upstairs. Historical things down here."

"Let's go upstairs," Molly said, approaching the staircase.

He followed and she ascended, her hand on the bannister.

Sherlock walked over to a far corner where a painting stood, dark and solitary in a corner, while Molly made her way toward some sculptures. She was fairly impressed, it was a fine collection for a smallish place. She meandered through, not bothering to examine much, but taking time to look at each piece, until she made her way back to Sherlock.

He was still standing in front of that painting.

"It's haunting, in a way," he said.

Molly looked at it. It was a scene in the forest, soft light descending from the sky…green, brown, and black were the prominent colors.

"It's lonely," Molly observed.

"Perhaps that's why I'm drawn."

"You're lonesome?"

"In a way."

"Which is that?"

He looked at her. "Recall in the car I said that life isn't defined by intelligence?"

She nodded.

"Well," he looked back at the painting. "I discovered it's defined by love."

And now she looked at it. "And you haven't enough?"

"I haven't that which I desire most."

She looked at him, and he was looking at her…his gaze equal parts sad and desperate. Molly was taken aback by the intensity of it. She cleared her throat…she looked away. "You've always had it, Sherlock," she said softly.

"Forgive me, Molly…I hurt you…me…both of us…and I never knew…"

"S'okay."

"It's not."

She turned to him again. "Well, now it is. And we can…" she took a deep breath. "Now we can move on."

"What do you mean?" his eyes narrowed.

"I mean…we needn't dwell on it. Once I get accustomed…"

"You mean, you forgive me?"

She looked at him crookedly. "Well, almost," she smiled. "It's not that easy, after all these years."

He nodded. "Let's go downstairs," and he turned and led her down to the historical collection.

They walked together now, reading some of the stories and looking at artifacts. They spent another hour there, and by the time they left, it was well on four in the afternoon.

"I'll buy dinner," Molly said as they left. "Should we stay here or go back to Derbyshire?"

"Let's go back. That road winds and I'd rather not navigate it after wine in the dark," he said, hitting a stride to the car.

"Ok…" she fell into step. "Do you like wine?"

"Not especially. It's fine enough."

"You prefer something harder."

He cleared his throat. "Well, yes. Though getting drunk is something I've done enough of, it isn't my preferred mode of escape."

"I should escape more," she got into the passenger side of the car.

Sherlock turned the car on…"Some use intercourse for that purpose."

"What?" she laughed.

"Fuck to forget, or some such thing."

"Oh my god," she blushed.

"We're practicing, Molly," and he pulled out of the lot, into the street.

"That is something I may never get used to."

"What's that?"

"Hearing you say 'fuck', and speaking about sex so glibly."

"Oh, I think that you will," and he winked at her.


	8. Chapter 8

The car ride back to Derbyshire was pleasant enough. Molly didn't say much, she felt equal parts tired and uncomfortable.

…and neither did Sherlock.

They arrived at The Old Lockup and entered the place.

The clerk was there, which was odd, since Molly hadn't really seen him since Saturday. "Hi," she smiled.

He started a bit and nodded.

"You don't work much, do you?" she said.

"It's Tuesday. I have off Sunday and Monday," he replied with some heat.

"It was pleasant not having the clerk here, wasn't it, Molly? The constant reminders of an internet porn addict is somewhat off putting," Sherlock smiled. "And the chips at the pub next door are hardly worth further recommendation," he added, going upstairs.

Molly smiled and shrugged, then went upstairs herself after him. "Sherlock…"

"Hm?" he reached his door on the second floor.

"That was unnecessary."

"What was?" he took his key out.

"He's a lonely man. You didn't need to insult him like that," she followed him inside.

"He was brash and abrupt. Someone needed to put him in his place," he took his coat off and checked his phone, sitting at the table by the window.

Molly smiled. She followed and sat across from him. "Where do you want to eat?"

His brow furrowed as he scrolled. "Hang on…" and he typed.

She watched, then became aware of her watching, and opted for the window instead.

"Ah! Brilliant," and he typed some more.

"What?" glancing toward him now.

"He confessed," he smiled.

"I don't…"

"The case Lestrade sent…" and the sound of a text being sent was heard. "I told him that I couldn't leave, that I could solve it remotely and he didn't believe me," he put his phone away, looking very pleased. "Man confessed to murdering his fiancee," he explained.

"Oh."

She watched as he became slightly uncomfortable. "You've had my full attention every minute we've been together, Molly. You do know that, right?"

"Mm…yes. I know," she sounded doubtful, but mostly agreeable.

He nodded, looking at her. "I can't ever give this up, Molly. Whatever else happens, this is my work and it is as much a part of me as anything…"

"What are you talking about?"

"I…" he cleared his threat and sat back, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. "I mean, that no matter what transpires between the two of us, I will always be like this to a degree."

"I know. I wouldn't want you to give it up," she replied, slightly affronted and with a confused look. "Why would I?"

"Good," he nodded. "Good. I thought as much. Just wanted that to be clear."

"And I would never abandon my work," she added.

"Of course you wouldn't. Why on earth would you even suggest…?"

"Dunno. Just wanted that to be clear," she smiled.

He nodded, a knowing smile on his face. "Well," and he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "Dinner…" his voice dropped.

"Yes. I'm rather peckish."

"Ah…yes. Food," he replied.

"Of course…what did you think…?"

"Nothing," and his voice was elevated, and he stood, looking at his phone.

Molly felt confused, but stood anyway. "I'll just change, then."

"Why?" he wasn't looking at her.

"Well, it'd be nice to wear something fresh."

He looked at her confusedly, then at his own clothes. "I wasn't planning on…"

"This is for my benefit, Sherlock. Stay as you are. I'll meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes," and Molly left, heading upstairs. She opened her drawers, and was suddenly struck that tomorrow was their last full day in Derbyshire. They should do something fun and interesting tomorrow…

She took out a fresh pair of jeans and a grey blouse. She pulled her hair up again and grabbed a sweater and her bag.

She headed downstairs, momentarily confused by how she was taking this all in stride. "Well…did you find something?"

"Fancy Thai food?" he showed her his phone. It sounded pretty good.

"Ok," she shrugged.

"They have wine. I checked," he winked.

"Oh my god," he opened the door for her. "I wouldn't care…"

"Mm…you would," they headed up the street this time.

"Recall the last time you called me a drunk, Sherlock?" she said knowingly.

He cleared his throat. "I didn't call you a drunk, Molly. If you remember, you incorrectly inferred…"

"You were insinuating."

"I never insinuate anything."

"You always say exactly what you mean? That's hard to believe."

He stopped and, with a smile, said, "All right. I almost always say exactly what I mean. And though I had surmised that you had more recent experience with alcohol and intoxication, I never said that you were a drunk. I know I was wrong, and I apologize," he added. "Though one could hardly blame you for drinking while engaged to the meat dagger," and he continued to walk.

Molly caught up, having not moved for a few seconds. "You were jealous."

"Of course I was."

"But…"

"Molly, I have told you that I was jealous of nearly every boyfriend you had. Why wouldn't I be jealous of a fiancee?"

"But!" she took his arm and stoped him. "God, Sherlock, this is infuriating!"

"What is?"

"You were jealous. You loved me. You never said a word."

He looked at her crookedly. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't I tell you all of this already over the past few days?"

She rubbed her face and put her hands on her hips. "Yes. But…I suppose…I dunno. It's just now sinking in."

He shrugged. "I don't know what else to say…though, 'The restaurant is right there', seems appropriate," he smiled, and pointed at it.

"Bastard," she replied, laughing.

They walked into the restaurant, it was amply lit, and there were tables scattered…there was no definite pattern to the way in which the tables were placed. There was no one to seat them, so Sherlock led Molly to a corner in the front of the restaurant. She sat and looked at the menu.

Pretty standard Thai cuisine.

"So…" she looked at him as he began.

"What?"

"Are you less cross now?"

Molly shrugged. "Yeah. I am."

"Good," he smiled.

"But I'm still having a time."

"How do you mean?"

"Everything, Sherlock. I know that you…" she sighed.

….and the server came, and took their orders.

Sherlock ordered a bottle of wine. "I'll pay for it," he smiled.

"S'okay. You've paid for nearly everything, which isn't something I'm used to…" she cleared her throat and took a sip of the newly poured out wine. "Anyway, I know you mean it when you say that you love me…I mean, I believe you. But I'm still unsure. And confused. And…"

"Why? Why can't you just accept it?" he took a long draught.

"Because! Because I've believed this was impossible for so long that for it not to be is almost impossible to comprehend."

His mouth set and he sighed, then nodded. "Understood."

Molly looked out of the window. "You're being very…accommodating…"

"That, I would think, is a desirable thing…"

"It is," she glanced down and then at him again. "It's just surprising…" and paused, "Add that to the list," she smiled.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm navigating this a bit blind, Molly. I'm taking cues from you, since I have no experience where this sort of thing is concerned."

"Haven't you had any…girlfriends?"

"Ah…no," he accentuated the 'no'.

"You've never cared for anyone romantically? At all?"

"No. Sex I've done. But romance…" he looked at her. "I suppose I've read enough novels to understand the basics. Apart from that, aren't romantic relationships basically friends with whom you have sex?"

"I…" she considered this. "Well, broadly speaking, yes. I suppose that's fair."

"Then I think I can figure the rest out with your help."

"It is a bit more deep, though…there is…more…." she couldn't formulate the words to her liking. "Romance is exhilarating…and intense."

"It's novel?"

"No. I mean, somewhat…there's a certain adoration? I can't explain it without it sounding ridiculous."

"I think that it likely is. Though that doesn't render it less compelling," he added softly.

She smiled. "But to the point. You've had sex, but no relationships. How did that work?"

"I should think that's fairly obvious."

She blushed. "Right."

"Molly…I had kept well away from these entanglements. You got caught accidentally."

"Interesting way to put it."

Their food came and She tasted it…quite good. "How's yours?"

"Not bad," he smiled. "So…" he took a sip of wine. And then fidgeted a bit.

"What is it?"

"Last night…this morning, rather…we co-slept," he looked down. "I was wondering…" he played with his food.

"You want to sleep in the same bed again?" she blushed and blushed again. Molly couldn't believe she was having this conversation.

"It helped me," he said softly.

"What do you mean?"

"I haven't been sleeping well since Sherrinford. Having you next to me was calming."

He still hadn't looked up. "Oh," Molly replied. That was sweet and shocking. "What happened to you, Sherlock?"

He looked at her. He sighed. "So much…"

She took another long drink then filled both of their glasses again.

He drank some. "I never knew I had a sister, Molly. Never knew that I called myself a sociopath when Euros was the one who had earned that term," he played with his glass. "Until that experience, I never knew myself. My entire sense of self was upended. I discovered that the very emotions I ridiculed countless others for were so much of who I was that I destroyed certain memories just to be able to cope. But then I couldn't anyway, and became a drug addict," and he drank some more. "Though that was more likely because I was filling the void of friendship that I had created because I couldn't allow anyone to get close to me."

"Jesus."

He smiled. "I'm not well. I'm broken…"

"You're not," she reached for his hand. "You're just…lost," and she squeezed his hand and then quickly took her hand back. "I've been there, Sherlock. I know what it's like."

"You know what it's like to have a sibling you didn't know existed who killed your best friend and you repressed your memories and thereby sabotaged most of your ability to form intimate relationships?"

Molly giggled. "Well, almost."

"I think that this is uniquely my problem."

"It is, and it isn't. Everyone has things, Sherlock. Everyone has something that they wrestle with. Yours just happens to be …."

"Fucked?"

"Well, yeah," she laughed, then took another bite.

He retuned her laugh, but when she looked at him again, there were tears in his eyes. "Will you stay with me? I promise not to touch you," he swallowed.

Molly sighed. "Ok, Sherlock. But my room. And yeah. I'm not ready for sex," she said softly.

He nodded. "Understood."

* * *

The rest of the meal was passed pleasantly enough, and they walked back to the B&B. She was uncomfortable again…the idea that he needed to sleep next to her was unnerving, but in a good way.

"I'll be up in a minute?"

"Ok," she squeaked softly, and went up the stone stairs to her room. She went in and turned the bedside lamp on, then took some pajamas out of the drawer and went to the loo. Molly changed, took her hair down, and pulled on her PJs. She went out into the room and crawled into bed. She checked the time…nine thirty. Rather early…and took one of the books out.

She heard a soft knock at the door, and the subsequent opening of the door. "Molly?"

"Hm?" she was sitting up and looking at the Sonnets. "Come in, Sherlock."

He walked in, a bit hesitantly, then went to the loo. She heard him brushing his teeth, and wondered if she should turn the light off…

…but she wasn't sleepy just yet, and it was pretty early. So, she paged through the book some more and heard him reenter the room. She looked up to see him standing next to the bed, appearing anxious. "Are you ok?"

He nodded, then took his dressing gown off and got into bed. He took his mobile out of his pajama's pocket. "I was thinking about tomorrow…"

"Yes. It's the last full day we are here."

"Mm…are you a fan of Austen, Molly?"

"Austen?"

He looked at her. "As in, Jane?"

"Oh…ah…" she liked Jane Austen well enough, but she was rather fond of darker stories. Austen wasn't particularly dark. "She's fine."

"Just fine?"

"Yes. Why?"

He looked at her crookedly. "Well, I'm not terribly familiar with her. I might have read something ages ago…" he turned back to the phone and scrolled. "But can't really recall. I had thought, when you came here, that the draw might be to her and that novel of hers. The famous one…" his brow furrowed. "Pride and Prejudice?"

"Oh…ah…no. I had been here once before and always wanted to return."

He nodded without looking at her. "You see, the character… this…" he squinted. "'Mr Darcy', held residence here in her story, and Chatsworth House is a location that has been used in renditions. It's only…" he scrolled. "About ten miles from here," he looked at Molly. "Care to see it?"

"Oh…" she saw now. She smiled. "Ok," she replied, shrugging. "That sounds nice."

"Good," and he went to his phone once more.

Molly looked back at the book, and started biting her nails.

"Why are you nervous?"

"Hm?" she looked over but he wasn't looking at her.

"You're biting your nails. Why are you nervous?"

"I'm not."

He sighed, put the phone down and looked at her. "Molly. Think about who you are talking to, and then reform your answer."

She rolled her eyes. "We're in bed together, Sherlock. It's a bit…unnerving."

He nodded slowly. "Should I leave?"

She looked away. "No. S'okay. Just…odd." She felt him shifting.

"I could read to you. Perhaps that will alleviate any discomfort you feel."

Molly looked at him, he was fully propped up against the headboard. She smiled. "You're being so…"

"Don't. Say. It," he punctuated each word.

"What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and his head fell back. "You were about to tell me that I'm being nice."

Damn. She was. "Well…"

"There's a vast difference between being _nice_ and wanting to make someone happy."

"Is that what you're doing?" she asked softly, sitting up straighter against the headboard and looking at him with some awe.

"Of course it is."

She felt a lump in her throat and looked away. "Wow."

"You know that I'm trying to prove to you that I'm in love with you. It isn't easy, considering our history. So I'd advise you to take most things I tell you at face value."

She wrapped her arms around her and nodded, feeling tears stinging. She wiped her cheek hurriedly, hoping he didn't see.

"Molly?" he softly said.

"What?" and she felt his fingers touch her chin, gently easing her to face him… her eyes were shut…and she felt his thumb brush away rogue tears.

"Don't cry. Please," his voice was low and gruff.

"I can't help it…" she opened her eyes and more spilled as she looked at him.

He leaned over…dropped his hand…and kissed her cheek…"I'd do anything to erase my treatment of you…" he whispered against her skin.

And Molly felt the emotion in her stomach…she sobbed, and she threw her arms around his neck, pulling him toward her. He held her close as she cried.

…and she cried for a while..until she was so exhausted from it that she fell asleep…in his arms.


	9. Chapter 9

_I don't count._

 _We met through friends._

 _You always say such horrible things._

 _How dare you betray the trust of your friends._

 _You say it. Say it like you mean it._

 _I don't count…_

…her eyes were slow to open. But she didn't need to open them. She felt him next to her.

He was breathing deeply…his arm was around her waist, his other hand was cupping the side of her face that was on the pillow…he had one leg bent in between hers…

They were pretty close, but not on top of one another.

She thought that his right hand must be asleep, for her head was heavy on it.

…Molly took note of her extremities…her left hand was gripping his wrist, her right was on the bed, and her legs were bent at the knee.

She opened her eyes now. They were both clothed. This was good, since she was worried momentarily that they had had sex. She wanted to remember that, and most of all, be ready when it happened.

Because she was certain now that it would.

Sherlock was still asleep, his mouth slightly open, and he held a soft snore.

She smiled.

Molly moved her legs…she wanted to get up. She lifted her head from the pillow…

…and he instantly opened his eyes.

She felt his fingertips move through her hair…

She smiled at him. "Morning," she said softly.

He appeared to be slightly confused, and started to move his leg from between hers. Molly moved in kind, pulling away…

His left hand took her right wrist. "Don't," he breathed.

"What is it?" she asked, a bit puzzled by his behavior.

"Stay…" he replied, and pulled her to his chest, laid on his back, and stroked Molly's hair. "I had a terrible dream," he began. "I dreamed that Euros blew your flat up, just as I had told you how I felt."

Her cheek was pressed against his chest, she could feel the low rumbling of his voice and the beat of his heart…

The motion of his fingers through her hair was lulling, and she closed her eyes.

"…I was so scared, Molly…" his voice was very soft. "I don't think I've ever felt that way…"

"What way?"

He cleared his throat and stopped his hand. "John has been in danger many times because of his association with me, and I've always responded the same way: guilty, a bit desperate…but in this dream, I felt…angry. Lost…and…something…"

She nodded, then propped herself up on her elbow. She smiled at him, as a look of wonder passed his visage. "I'm here," she said.

She watched him swallow and nod. "And so am I."

…and another look fell over him, and his demeanor altered somewhat.

"What?" she said, feeling as though something was happening…

His breath quickened, and he appeared to reach for her for a split second, but he stopped. "Nothing," and he got up. "I'll be just a minute," he said, and went to the loo.

Molly sat up fully and wondered if he was about to kiss her just then.

And then she wondered if she would have stopped him…

She turned and stood, put her dressing gown on, and went to the window. The last day there. It was sad…and she rather dreaded going home now.

…though she was off for three days afterwards. Perhaps she and Sherlock could…

She stopped. Of course they'd see one another. Just because they were leaving Derbyshire, didn't mean that any of this was going to change.

Because it wasn't. None of it would change.

She swallowed. There was nothing about this particular place that meant that Sherlock loved her. This wasn't the beginning and the end of their romantic attachment.

…but worry seeped into her cells anyway as she looked out into the garden.

And she decided that tomorrow, after they returned to London, she'd be ready to sleep with him.

Well, have intercourse.

Sex.

Whatever…

She smiled. Tomorrow night, she nodded. And she felt better instantly.

She heard him reenter and turned…he appeared to have taken a shower. "Did you bathe?" she smiled.

"I did. I…" he cleared his throat. "I felt compelled to."

"Oh."

His eyebrows went up. He smirked.

"Ohh…" she replied, and blushed.

"Yesss," he said, smiling more broadly. "Well…I'll go and change. Breakfast here or elsewhere?"

"What time is it?" she looked at the clock. It was already ten. She was sleeping a lot on this trip. "Let's go. What time does the house open for tours?"

He was looking at his phone. "Eleven."

"Perfect. I'll meet you downstairs in half an hour," and she went to the loo.

Molly got into the shower, thinking about the fact that Sherlock Holmes had just masturbated in this very place.

…and she was simultaneously embarrassed and aroused.

She washed, cleaned her teeth, and got dressed.

She applied a bit more makeup than was her custom, and even a bit of perfume. She felt sexy, and she wanted to display it.

Molly sat on her bed and took her journal out…she hadn't thought about it since the first day here.

She opened it, and took a pen out.

 _He loves me, and there's nothing else I need to know._

She looked at the words, and tapped the end of her pen to her lips. Yes. That was all she needed to know…

Just convincing enough, she thought, and put it back in the drawer, took a sweater and her bag and went downstairs.

She saw him standing by the front window, facing the street, hands in his coat pocket. She walked up to him. "Hi," she smiled.

"Ready?" he opened the door.

…and they walked out. "You ok?"

"Yep. Fine."

She looked at him as they went to the car. "Sure? You seem…"

He sighed, and appeared to be contemplating something…he unlocked the car.

"This is your car?" she looked at it. "It's a…"

"Aston Martin, and it's Mrs. Hudson's. I borrowed it."

"What…? I thought this was the owner's car," she got in.

"Nope. Mrs Hudson is away while 221B is fixed…so I'm using her car."

"What's wrong with 221B?"

"Didn't I tell you? It was blown up."

Molly's mouth hung agape. "Wha…?"

"Yes. Euros did that, too. So, I'm staying in Mrs Hudson's flat while she's away on holiday for the next six weeks. Which means…" he winked at Molly as he pulled into the street. "I get full use of this car."

"Wow."

"Indeed."

"So…what's wrong…?"

His air changed rapidly. "I need to go to Sherrinford tomorrow. Probably be there all day."

"Why?"

"It's about Euros. They aren't being terribly specific, but my parents are going, and so is Mycroft."

"Oh," she looked out of her window. "You don't want to go."

"No. I rather wanted to settle in…spend some time with you in London uninterrupted for a few days while we both ease back into work and life."

"Wow."

"What? Is that not good?"

She was looking at him, astonished. "No. It's…more than good, actually. It's amazing."

"Is it," it wasn't a question, and he smiled at her.

"Just lovely, Sherlock. I can't believe you'd want to do that."

"Well, to be fair, part of this included not getting out of bed all day, but…" he cleared his throat and side eyed her. "…that was just my interpretation."

"Oh my god," she laughed.

"Can I ask you something?"

"'Course."

"Were you in love with Tom?" he winced.

"You make that face every time you say his name."

"His name is equal parts repellant and torturous."

She looked away and blushed. "I…did. I was. For a bit."

"How long?"

"Until you came back. About…just under a year."

He nodded and rounded a bend. "What did you love about him?"

"He wasn't you."

"That's what you loved about him?" he responded, incredulously.

"Partly, ya."

"Not a very compelling reason."

"It was at the time, Sherlock. I was hurt and lonesome. I was scared of being alone for the rest of my life…" she looked out of the window as she said this. It was true. She had thought that she'd be alone forever, and the thought was terrifying.

And then she realized that, after Sherlock came back, that she would never be happy with Tom. Because he wasn't Sherlock.

"Wasn't there anything about him in particular that incited love?"

"He…he was very…kind. And attentive. And I thought that that was what I wanted. And he resembled you slightly, something that I didn't really notice until later, but I suppose that was a factor," she paused. "Why?"

"Well, I'm curious. And I never asked because I didn't want want to be…"

"An arse?"

He looked over. "Yes. I suppose that's fair."

She smiled. "I guess I could come up with something better. Gimme a mo'."

"It's heartening to learn that you need time to come up with reasons why you were in love with the man you were promised to marry," he smiled and accelerated. "Almost there."

She nodded and played with the hem of her sweater, thinking about Tom. "He…Tom…he was gentle. He cared about me…he loved me for me. I needed that."

"Yes."

They drove down a long lane toward Chatsworth House, and Molly watched as trees whizzed by.

…and the house emerged into view.

"Wow," she whispered.

It was magnificent by every estimation. Sherlock pulled into the carport behind the house and they got out.

There was a small crowd there already…nothing terribly large.

"I'll go see about tickets and I'll meet you in the main hall," Sherlock nodded and went in a side door.

Molly kicked at some gravel and put her hands in her pockets. She was ruminating on Tom, and why she had agreed to marry him.

…at the time, she honestly believed that it was because she was in love with him. They had fun, for the most part, together. She was attracted to him. Mostly.

He treated her well.

Perhaps that was the crux of it…and she smiled and nodded at some people as she passed them.

Nothing was intense with Tom. He was steady and reliable. Boring…

She stopped and looked out onto the small lake in front of her. He was…she swallowed. He was boring. And that, above all else, was what repelled her. He never spoke of anything interesting. He was moronic in his own way.

Nice just wasn't enough for her.

She recalled feeling self hatred when she ended it, convinced as she was that Sherlock was the catalyst. And though that wasn't entirely untrue, there was more to it than that. It was Tom himself.

And she felt somewhat better.

Molly smiled softly as she looked out at the tableau in front of her…

"…I hope that look is for me."

She turned and saw Sherlock looking at her intently. "No. It wasn't."

His face fell somewhat and he shrugged, walking up to her. "Well, despite that, I got our tickets. Tour is half past twelve, so we have some time to eat in the cafe."

"Good," she nodded. "Let's go." They turned and went into the grand place, Molly awestruck by the whole of it. "It's incredible that people live this way."

"Not really. What's incredible is that it's allowed and revered."

"Are you a communist?" she laughed as they sat at a table.

"Not at all. I'm apolitical, for the most part. But I have acquired a sense of fairness as I've aged, and there's nothing fair about this. It should be a museum only, and the Duke and Duchess of Derbyshire should be forced into the servant's house round back."

"I wouldn't say that too loudly, Sherlock. And you did just pay to see their house," Molly opened a menu.

"For your benefit, mostly," he glanced at his menu. "What do you reckon?"

"Mm…dunno. I'm hungry…"

"But not for food?" he said softly.

…and she looked up to find him smiling slightly. "Oh my god," she blushed.

He laughed. "What were you thinking of outside?" he went back to the page.

"Tom, mostly."

"Why were you thinking of him?" his eyes shot to hers.

"Well, because of your question, and then I was thinking about why I ended it…I had thought that it was mostly because of you…"

"It wasn't?"

She shook her head. "No…it was me. He was boring."

And a smile crept along his features. "Ah. Yes. Intolerable."

Molly nodded, smiled, and went back to the menu.

* * *

They finished a pleasant lunch and went to the hall for their tour. Molly was captivated enough by the art, the furniture, but grew tired of it after a while. There really is only so much finery one can reasonably withstand.

"Let's walk outside," she whispered to Sherlock.

"You done here?" he responded in kind.

"Yes. Aren't you?"

"Molly, I was finished before it began," and he took her hand with a wink and led her down a back staircase.

"Sherlock…are we supposed to be using this?" she looked around for employees.

"No," he answered, and led her out into the garden, breathing in deeply and dropping her hand. "There's a maze," he pointed in one direction. "There's a small farm," he pointed in another. "Some woods," he pointed to a far corner. "And of course, the formal garden with water features, statues and such," he looked at Molly. "What do you fancy?"

"What would you like to see?" she asked.

He looked around. "Don't care for animals much. None that aren't domestic, at any rate. The maze is likely so elementary it's absurd…that leaves woods and the formal garden."

"Woods, then," and Molly started in that direction, Sherlock right next to her, hands in his pockets. She looked at him. "Still thinking about tomorrow?"

"Mm…a bit…just curious that Mycroft is being so obtuse. And when I haven't a case on, I tend to perseverate," they entered the pine treed woods.

"I know what that's like," Molly walked along the soft floor, dark and quiet in the thick.

"Do you?"

"'Course I do. I have that type of personality," the trees grew apart some and deciduous trees began emerging. There were rhododendrons and some flowering shrubs along the way. Eventually, the woods grew apart and there was a rocky summit in front of them, a picturesque view emerged. They weren't that high up, but the scene stretched out for miles. They were along the very edge of the Peaks. "Wow," she breathed.

"Lovely," Sherlock observed.

"You don't say that much," Molly looked at him.

"What? That something is lovely?"

"No. I don't hear it."

"I appreciate beauty," he looked at her. "But, I suppose, I don't voice it often."

"Why?" and she looked again at the scene. "Doesn't anything move you enough to say it out loud?"

"Not frequently."

…and she felt him take her hand…Molly looked up at him…he was looking at her very intently…

"You're beautiful, Molly Hooper…" he whispered…and his hand moved to her cheek…her breath caught…he leaned toward her, and claimed her lips…

…very soft at first, he kissed her, and for the first time, really, she responded…and this encouraged him, for he opened her mouth, slid his tongue in, and turned her more toward him…both of his hands were at her neck now, and Molly's were grasping the sleeves of his coat…

…and it was slow, the kiss at first…exploratory and delicate…his thumbs were stroking her cheeks, and Molly was just holding on…

He pulled away for a moment, his eyes blazing as he looked at her, and then he leaned in again, this time, with heat…his kiss was urgent, deep, and with some frantic purpose…he leaned into her, and Molly held his shoulders…his hands began to roam her body, pulling her ever closer…

And his hands reached her hips, he guided her to a tree, and pressed her against it…Molly felt some desperation in his action, and he pulled her legs in a wrap around him…she ground against his arousal, and he groaned…

"Molly," he whispered in her mouth. "I need you…"

She pulled away at that, for she was suddenly keenly aware that they were about to have sex outside and on someone else's private property. "Sherlock…we can't…here…" she gasped.

"Why ever not?" he leaned his forehead against hers…bucked his hips into her core, obstructed by clothes though she was…

Molly moaned…catching her breath…"It isn't right…and I…I'd want it to be a bit more…"

He pulled away to look at her, his hands still on her bottom, her hands on his. "Comfortable?" he smiled.

"Well…ya," she shrugged.

He nodded, and lowered her to the ground. "Tonight, perhaps?"

"I…I was thinking about tomorrow…after we return."

"I'll be in Sherrinford."

"Into the night?"

He looked at the ground. "Can't say."

"Well…."

"Molly, what is the significance of waiting until we are home?" he looked at her with a confused look, not something she was accustomed to seeing.

"Ah…well…" she cleared her throat. "Silly, really…"

"Tell me," he took her hand, rubbing it gently with his thumb.

She couldn't look at him. "I suppose…I just have it in my head that when we leave, this might all just…" she shrugged. "Disappear…" she blushed.

"Why would you think that?"

"Dunno."

He took his hand back and lifted her chin. "I love you. That isn't changing."

"Hard to believe," she shrugged.

"I wish that I could do something to convince you…"

"You are, Sherlock. You really are," she smiled and put her palm on his cheek, then kissed him softly. She swallowed, pulling away. "Say it again."

"I love you," he whispered.

She smiled…"I love you, too."

"That's the first you've said it since…since…"

"I know. Thought you'd like to hear it," she replied, pulling away.

But he followed, and her back was against the tree again. "Say it again," he was looking at her mouth.

"I love you…"

He sighed, and kissed her neck. Her head went back as he caressed her softly, his hands ran up and down her torso…"Those words…" he mumbled.

"What?"

"They shall end me," and he went back to her mouth, kissing her soundly, then took her hand. "Let's go, Molly. We need to pack and such. Decide where we are sleeping…" he winked.

…and they left the woods, hand in hand.


	10. Chapter 10

She was sitting on the edge of the bed looking at the palms of her hands.

Dinner was approaching, and he was in his room, getting ready. She wasn't sure what that meant.

…but she was supposed to be doing the same thing.

Instead, Molly was looking at her hands.

Her heart was beating very fast, and she was confused by it. They were not having sex that night…

…perhaps it was the prospect of going home in the morning.

And she took a deep breath.

Yes…that was it.

She held herself and leaned over a bit. She closed her eyes.

…and she wished that they were already in London and everything was fine.

Molly got up and went to the loo. She looked in the glass…her brow was furrowed as her reflection looked back at her. Somehow, she didn't recognize herself. Somehow, she was different…

It was, perhaps, nervous understanding which rendered her face strange to her. Molly had known her heart for ages, despite the fervent ignoring of it.

And now she knew his.

And it wasn't at all what she had expected.

She should be thrilled. She should be beside herself with happiness…

…but all she could think was, this could all end. It could all be fleeting. He could be…

No. She couldn't think that he wasn't being anything but truthful. For if she didn't believe him, all was lost.

Molly washed her face and ran a brush through her hair. She applied the tiniest bit of makeup and went to dress.

She had no idea where they were going, or indeed, if they were going. They may be eating there…

She took a sweater just in case and headed downstairs.

* * *

He wasn't there yet. She went into the library and sat at the fire. She was staring steadily at it…breathing deeply and trying to steady herself.

"My love is as a fever, longing still for that which longer nurseth the disease, feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, the uncertain sickly appetite to please…"

Molly turned and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway. She smiled. "Hi."

"Hi," and he went over and sat next to her. "What do you think of take away?"

"I think…" she smiled. "You want to stay in?"

"Well…yes."

She swallowed, and wondered if there wasn't a not-so-hidden meaning in his words. "Sherlock, we are waiting…"

"I know. I'm not suggesting…"

"You are," she admonished. "And I understand, but…"

"Molly. Please do not mistake me, I don't plan on doing anything untoward. I simply feel like staying in."

She nodded. "All right."

"Excellent. I'll return momentarily," and he got up and left.

Molly looked into the small fire burning in the hearth. She sighed and swallowed. Maybe she was being silly…maybe her insistence to wait until tomorrow was unfounded.

But she felt compelled to wait. Her mind was convinced that waiting would solidify their…

Her eyes went wide.

Their relationship.

She was in a relationship with him. With Sherlock. Her mouth curled a small smile.

She had to be…they loved each other…and the full impact of the realization seized her. Molly's mind relaxed a bit, and she stood, going to the window. She held herself as she looked out into the falling night. What she would have given to have this information years ago…to know his heart.

Molly sighed and closed her eyes. So much time wasted…

She turned and went back to the armchair she had been sitting in. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Headache?"

She looked up and saw him there, holding two brown bags. "No."

"Hm…" he said, sitting down, brow furrowed as he considered her. "Well…I got us salads and a few other things…appetizer things, the server said."

"Lovely."

Sherlock took the food from the bag, handed Molly a couple of containers, and retrieved a bottle of wine. "It's a screw top," he winked.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Was that another sonnet you recited earlier?"

"My love is as a fever, longing still, for that which longer nurseth the disease, feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, the uncertain sickly appetite to please. The uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, angry that his prescriptions are not kept, hath left me, and I desperate now approve desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, and frantic-mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, at random from the truth vainly express'd; For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night," he paused, and poured the wine. "Sonnet one hundred forty seven," and handed her a glass.

"Wow."

He smiled and sat back with his salad. "It isn't that impressive, as far as impressive things are concerned."

"I find it to be," and she took a bite. "How do you interpret it?"

"It's about longing. About the object of the writer's desire being the end of him."

She blushed and looked away. "Do you think that's true? That love is a sort of death?"

"It's both an ending and a beginning I think…"

"But it isn't about love, necessarily, is it?"

"No," he looked at her with a fixed stare. "Bit more, then."

"More?"

"As in, in addition to."

Molly nodded. "Right."

"Desire is a compliment to love. It enhances and adds to it, and there is a ferocity associated with this longing. It's only cure, together."

She looked at him, and her pulse quickened…but he was looking into the fire…"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"About Irene Adler, oddly," he paused and looked at her, a smile flashed and then disappeared. "Not odd, I suppose. She was the person I had sex with most recently. But…she…"

"You care for her?" she swallowed.

"In a way, yes. She was a captivating woman."

"Was?"

"In the sense that, I no longer am connected to her."

Molly nodded. "Is that…upsetting?"

"No," he took a bite. "No…it's just a fact."

"Was she…" Molly stopped…"Ah…good?"

Sherlock smiled as he looked at her. "Well, she was interesting. Definitely not boring."

"Oh," her gaze fell.

"What?" he sipped some wine. "She was a professional, Molly. It would have been bad business if she was dull at her trade."

"I suppose you have a point."

"Of course I do."

She nodded. "Did you…?"

He looked at her. "You aren't eating much."

Molly sipped her wine. "No…but …did you enjoy it?"

"Sex with Irene Adler? Yes. I did."

She blanched and swallowed. "Oh."

"What would you have me say, Molly? I enjoy sex as much as any other person…"

"You do?" she breathed.

His eyes went wide and he nodded slowly. "Of course I do…why would you think…?"

"Because…because…you seemed either unaffected or disinterested, if not somewhat disgusted by it."

Sherlock smiled, shook his head, and ruffled his hair as he leaned his elbows on his knees, and folded his hands. "Yes. I suppose that's fair."

"So, that's why it's surprising."

He shrugged, looking at the floor. "I cannot undo how you see me. And I guess that how you view me isn't entirely undeserved. However, I hope that you will attempt to try. For," he looked at her and sat back. "I am not necessarily that person."

"I'm beginning to see that."

He smiled. "Curious how well my persona pervaded every person's perception of me. No one thought it could be a rouse."

"I knew that you weren't as cold as you seemed. You opened up to me quite frequently…but love and the like wasn't something you ever discussed. I assumed you simply didn't care, and you certainly didn't derive pleasure from either thing."

"But I do…" he said softly.

And Molly nodded. She took another bite and wiped her mouth, then poured some more wine. "It's all so strange."

"Some day, with any luck, it won't be. Strange, that is."

She shook her head…it sounded so…permanent, the way he described their relationship. _Some day…_ as in the future, as yet un-lived, day. "Where should we sleep?" she whispered.

He smiled very slightly. "Wherever you feel most comfortable."

"My room, then," she replied, and downed her wine. "You are being very…accommodating…"

"Yes. But I wouldn't get too used to it, Molly," he smirked. "I am trying to be as gentle as possible, since you are…unconvinced? Unsure…? But don't count on it lasting."

She nodded, confused as to whether he was joking. "I'll just…I'll head up, then."

"Already?"

"I'm tired," which was half true. She was anxious to get to sleep so that the morning would arrive, they'd go back, and she could get beyond this mental block regarding the significance of being in London. And she stood and went upstairs.

* * *

Molly hurriedly changed into her light nightgown and brushed her teeth. She was feeling the wine, just a touch…and she turned the light off and crawled into bed. A moment later she heard the door open, and then click shut.

Her heart was pounding.

She listened very closely as Sherlock used the loo, then came back in. There was a pause as he got into the bed next to her…

…and she was tense. Very.

Perhaps she was feeling silly…perhaps she was thinking about the time they spent that day in the woods…

She closed her eyes tightly.

"Molly?"

"What?" her voice was tense.

"I can feel your nerves from here. Should I leave?"

"No…" she turned on her back, sighing, then fell onto her side, facing him. "No. Sorry. I suppose I am just…very…aware…"

"Of?" he was on his back, and he turned his head to look at her, then onto his side as well.

"This."

"This?"

"This…closeness…physically."

He nodded. "We could be closer."

"Is that wise?"

"Probably not…" and he took his hand, and with his finger, traced her jawline, down her neck…

She closed her eyes and swallowed. "Sherlock…"

"Hm?" his finger had stopped in her cleavage.

"We had agreed…"

"You're quite right…" and he took his finger away, and leaned over, kissing the corner of her mouth. "Goodnight, Molly…" he breathed.

…she could turn her head…she could kiss him properly…and she turned, claiming his lips…

…he deepened it with some urgency, and leaned over, putting her on her back…his left hand was in her hair, grasping…and his tongue danced in her mouth. He pulled away, kissing her cheek, her neck, his hand on her back now, pulling her closer…

"Sherlock…stop…" she said.

He ceased instantly, and pulled away, keeping his hand on her back. "Sorry. I'm sorry…" and he un-held her.

"No, I'm sorry. I was too…"

He placed a finger to her lips. "Don't apologize. I'm here. I made this request," and he went back onto his side.

Her breath was recovering, and she nodded. "Tomorrow night," she said.

"Tomorrow night," he repeated, and kissed her forehead.

She swallowed. "It is silly, I understand that."

"Well, there are things, I suppose, that every person works up in their mind, and this is part of that for you."

"What have you worked up?" she asked.

He looked at the ceiling. "The importance of logic, the abhorrence of feeling, and the fear of being wrong."

"You?" she smiled. "Wrong?"

"Doesn't happen often, but I've been humbled enough to recognize that I was wrong about this," he smiled at her, but went back to looking at the ceiling. "Someone should see to freshening up the ceiling. The paint is in a state."

Molly giggled. "You really do examine ceilings, hm?"

He shrugged. "Occasionally."

"It's nice to hear that you aren't above recognizing that you can be wrong about things."

"Well, I'd be pretty daft to insist that I'm right, when I clearly cannot. Being in love with you is an obvious counterargument to that hypothesis."

Molly's smile dropped with her gaze…it sounded so odd coming from his lips. "Yeah," she breathed. "There's so much that I still want to know and understand about this, Sherlock."

"You only need ask," he looked at her.

"Maybe tomorrow," and she turned on her back.

"Goodnight, Molly."

"Night Sherlock," and she closed her eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

...he wasn't there. She felt his absence.

She opened her eyes, and he was gone.

Molly sat up hurriedly and looked around the room, listening for movement.

There was none.

She swallowed. Did he leave? …was he even ever there in the first place…?

Molly got up and went to the loo. Afterwards, she took her dressing gown and wrapped herself tightly. She went back into the room and checked her phone.

No messages.

She went to the window and looked out into the lot…

…and there was the Aston Martin. She sighed. He had been there, she wasn't going mad. She had almost believed it, everything since she had taken that phone call had been so bizarre.

And that made her think of the phone call, and it gave her pause.

She was thinking of it differently since she had learned of his heart…and she recalled the way in which she had reacted when it happened…she had gotten sick and she called off of work.

Molly blushed a bit. She had been so affected…but she couldn't blame herself. She had been in love with him for years. And now…

Now, he was in love with her.

"Molly?"

She turned. "Oh," she smiled. "Hi. I didn't hear you…" he was dressed and carrying a paper bag.

"No," and he walked over to the table by the window, and set the bag down. "I went for coffee…we don't need to check out until noon," he opened the bag. "White. One sugar," he handed it to her with a wink and sat down.

Molly sat next to him and took her cup. "Thanks," she sipped and looked at him. "Still nervous about today?"

He shrugged and nodded. "A bit."

"Any idea what it might be about yet?"

"No…well. I have ideas, but none seem more plausible than the other," he sipped. "Not bad."

"We're going back today," she observed with a swallow.

He nodded, looking at her over his cup, then he set it down. "Yes…"

Molly looked out of the window.

He sighed. "Please don't be nervous, Molly."

"I'm not," and she looked down, playing with her cup.

He cocked a brow as she looked up at him. "Think about what you are saying, and who you are saying it to, then rephrase."

She smiled. "All right. Maybe I am, a little…"

"What can I do?"

"Nothing," she quickly responded. "I just need…I need…to be able to move on, and I can't just do that in a matter of days."

"You've built up sex in your head, and you cannot move past how you envision it will be between us."

"That's not true."

"No. You've got it into that lovely head of yours that once we get home, I'm going to suddenly forget everything that transpired here and will revert back to my previous way of behaving."

She swallowed. "I told you as much."

"Doesn't it sound ridiculous when you hear it? Why would I do such a thing?"

"Dunno," she shrugged.

Sherlock sighed and took her hand. "Molly, if I haven't proven my heart over these past few days, then I don't know how else I can prove it…but I hope that you can believe me."

"Sherlock…can't you see it from where I sit? I never thought this would happen, and yet…"

"…yet here I am," he interrupted. "Sorry," he dropped her hand. "Sorry I interrupted. I'm just…anxious. I feel as though this had been one step forward, two steps back."

"You're anxious?" she responded with disbelief.

"Of course I am."

Molly looked at him, slightly aghast. She dropped her gaze and nodded. "We should pack."

"I…I know that I seem quite different. And it's partly to do with the fragility of the situation. I know that I've hurt you, and I'm wary…my realization was just as shocking to me as anyone, and I don't know what to do…I'm trying to make you believe me in the most delicate way possible."

Molly smiled. "I appreciate that, Sherlock."

He nodded. "It's the truth."

"Yes…I feel your care. Everything that you do and say seems to be very…" she paused. "Premeditated?…deliberate, maybe."

"Deliberate. Yes. That's fair."

"Well…"

"Packing," he said softly. He looked around. "Molly, I'm planning on heading directly to Sherrinford. So…you don't need to wait for me or anything. I'll just head out and see you later."

She nodded. "Ok."

He smiled and stood.

She sat back. "What time…?"

"Not sure. Late, probably. Though maybe not."

"I love a definitive answer," she smirked.

"As do I, when I can offer one," he paused. "How about between six and nine?"

"See you then," she said.

…and he turned after a lingering look, and went downstairs.

She looked at the bed, and then the time. It was still rather early…she could take a nap…

…so she got up and crawled into the bed and breathed deeply. The sheets smelled of him slightly, and she temporarily wondered if this was a good idea…

…and she fell asleep.

* * *

There was knocking at the door.

Molly opened her eyes…she yawned and fell on her back.

"Miss?" more knocking. She sat up and looked at the clock. It was one in the afternoon…

She was supposed to check out at noon.

"Oh shit," she got up and opened the door. "I'm so sorry…" she smiled.

"It's ok. Your bill has been handled. Just checking to make sure you were all right," he handed her a receipt.

"Oh…" she took it and nodded. "I'll be out directly," she smiled and closed the door. She was happy that it wasn't that irritable clerk who brought her the charge.

And he had paid her bill! She shook her head and saw to packing.

The ride home went quickly, for she was very much not paying attention. Part of her wanted to hurry and get home, part was dreading it.

She couldn't decide which was more loud in her ears.

* * *

Molly was in a bit of a trance as she made her way to London, and subsequently, the rental place. She handed in her keys, paid the bill, and got on the Tube home.

She was sitting with her bags on her lap and staring at the window opposite.

She caught the eye of a man sitting in her field of vision…he winked at her, and she immediately looked away, shifted, and sat up straighter.

…she was never one to respond to flirtation from strangers, but it felt doubly strange right now.

Molly got off a few stops later and headed home.

She opened the door to her flat slowly and smelled the stale air as it hit her in the face. She turned and locked the door and brought her stuff in.

She checked her phone for the first time since leaving the B&B…

Nothing.

And she wondered about Sherlock.

She set to cleaning up and starting laundry, and then checked the time.

It was six at night.

She thought about texting him to see how it was going, but then she thought the better of it. He'd get in touch with her.

Unless he had decided that it wasn't going to work, after all.

…or she dreamed the whole thing.

Molly shook her head and changed the laundry over.

Everything was going to be all right. He was going to be there shortly, and then…

She closed her eyes.

And she got a glass of wine and sat in front of the telly…she wasn't at all hungry.

There wasn't much on in terms of good programming. She idly flipped through, thinking that she'd likely go mad with anticipation.

…and she thought about the years she'd spent waiting for him. The time she perseverated on him…wondering if it was futile…

…the time they were friends, and how she had convinced herself that that was enough.

And it was.

Mostly.

And how she found Tom. And how she was simultaneously thrilled and revolted. But she wasn't going to be alone, and that was the material point.

Because she honestly thought that being friends would be enough, and Molly didn't want to be alone forever.

And all that time she had spent convincing herself that it would be all right. She'd marry a respectable, if not slightly daft, Tom.

She'd always be there for Sherlock…always.

…but then, after John's wedding, she couldn't. She loved Sherlock too much. It was all overwhelming, and she ended her engagement…and for a moment, she hated Sherlock Holmes.

She hated him for robbing her of the modicum of happiness she thought she had snagged for herself.

She hated him for never loving her back.

…always taking her for granted.

Not valuing her or her needs.

But that hatred was rooted in love, as silly as it seemed.

Molly drank deeply of her wine and sighed…She turned off the telly and set her glass down. She got up and took a book from her shelf.

It was going to be a long night…

* * *

She heard something…it made her start and open her eyes. She had drifted…and she looked at her phone. It was a text message, and the time was just after midnight.

 _I'm outside your flat. Can you open the door, please?_

She swallowed and got up, shaking slightly.

Molly went to the door and opened it to see an exhausted Sherlock Holmes standing there.

"Hi," she said, and stood aside so that he could come in.

He seemed to hesitate a touch, then walked in, and took his coat off, hanging it up on a hook. "Sorry it's so late. I went to Baker Street first…needed to think," he sat down on her sofa. He leaned back and looked at her ceiling.

Molly was still standing in the doorway, but closed it and locked the door, then went to make tea. She had a feeling that he might want to talk. "What happened?" she asked as she put the kettle on.

"Well, my parents were being threatened by the families of the people who were murdered by Euros to sue. We had a very long meeting with them all…Mycroft was able to cut some deals."

"My god," she whispered as she readied the tea.

"One can hardly blame them," he sat up and looked at her. "She is a murderer."

Molly nodded as the kettle screamed. She poured the tea and brought over a tray for them. "What did you say during all of this?" she then sipped her tea.

"I'm sorry…what else could I say?"

She smiled. "Why did you go to Baker Street?"

"I needed to reflect on things. On how to move forward with my family. I hadn't really done that," and he sipped his own tea.

"What did you come up with?"

"To love them," he simply said.

Molly looked at him.

And he looked at her. "Sounds unelaborate for me, but what else can I do? I haven't ever just allowed myself the simplicity of love. It was never so plain…"

"No…"

His gaze fell. "How are you?" and he looked at his hands folded in his lap.

"Ok."

"Just ok?"

Molly shrugged. "I'm happy that you're here."

"I told you I would be," and he looked at her, swallowing.

She nodded. "Yes…I know you did."

He seemed to hesitate somewhat…"Molly…" he whispered.

"Yeah?"

He leaned over, and touched her cheek, looking at her mouth. "We can wait if you want…"

She closed her eyes…what good would waiting do at this point? "What do you want, Sherlock?" she whispered.

She saw him swallow…"You," he breathed.

…and she felt tears sting her eyes…and she leaned over and claimed his lips…

…the world fell away, the past…

Sherlock and Molly, and the feel of them, was all there was in the world.

* * *

 _Fear not! This chapter was a bit short, I know, but the next chapter will include some details in their...coupling. I hope to have it posted tomorrow night!_


	12. Chapter 12

_AN: Please be aware, some sexually explicit stuff following._

* * *

Molly hardly knew what was happening…she was lost in the kiss.

His hands seemed to be everywhere as the kiss deepened, and she opened her eyes for a moment, pulling away slightly…

…his breath was heavy. He swallowed. "Are you ok?" his hands were on her shoulders, his eyes on her mouth.

She staggered out a breath and nodded. This was happening…it was happening…"Yeah."

He touched her face. "I love you, Molly."

"I love you," she replied.

…and he smiled slightly. He nodded. He kissed her again softly…and his hands went to the base of her top and lifted it over her head, and pulled away as he did so. Hesitating slightly, he reached behind her and unclasped her bra. Molly's eyes were closed…he slid her bra off and she felt him touch her breast. She then opened her eyes. She felt him caress her nipple, and she reacted to his touch…she felt herself getting wet. She reached over to him and began to unbutton his shirt…he looked at her…

…and he appeared to be crying.

"Sherlock?"

He shook his head and pulled away from her, putting his hands on his face, elbows on his knees. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"What? What's wrong?" she touched his arm.

His hands fell. "I…I suddenly feel so guilty. Everything that I did to you. Everything that I didn't… to us…"

She felt shocked. What was she supposed to say to him? It wasn't ok. None of it had been. He had hurt her, repeatedly. Molly sighed and swallowed…took a throw from the sofa she was sitting on with him and covered herself with it. "You hurt me."

"I know."

"But that doesn't mean I need to dwell on it."

He sat back and looked at her. "How can you still love me? How could you fall in love with me to begin with?"

"Love doesn't always make sense."

He nodded, eyes falling. "I'm a terrible person."

"No, Sherlock. You're not," she took his hand. "But you are a right git," she smiled. "You're also maddeningly charming and funny. Brilliant, you are. And lovely."

"I'm sorry, Molly. I'm so sorry…for everything," he looked at her.

And she returned his gaze, nodding. "I forgive you," and she meant it, for they weren't the same people. Being in Derbyshire had changed them. The phone call changed them. And she didn't want to be angry at him anymore. She didn't want to second guess him anymore. She wanted to move on…and the only way that she could wasn't through loving him…for she had loved him forever.

…it was in forgiveness.

"You do?" he swallowed, looking at her intently.

She nodded. "Yeah…I do," her heart was light. Her mind was free…

…and Sherlock leaned over again, and this time there was no delicacy in his kiss…it was fervent and desperate. He tore the throw from her and pushed her back into the sofa. Molly ripped his shirt open and threw it to the floor. His hands moved down her body as his kiss continued to ravish her…and he found her pants. He pulled away and unbuttoned her pants, peeling them off and dropping them to the floor.

And Molly was naked.

She felt it as he looked down at her. Her arms went up to her chest and she bent her knees in an effort to conceal herself.

Sherlock placed a hand to her knee and pushed it down. "You're beautiful. Don't be embarrassed."

He stood and undid his own pants, and pulled them off. Molly wasn't looking at him…her eyes were closed, for she couldn't bear to look at him as he was studying her. She felt him open her legs slightly, and then he was in between her legs, and he was kissing her again.

She responded, and ran her hands down his back.

"Are you on the pill?" he heaved softly.

"IUD," she breathed, opening her eyes. "And clean," she added with a smirk. "And I know that you are, too."

He nodded. "You ran my blood work," he kissed her neck.

"Odd you didn't know I had an IUD. You are supposed to know everything."

He looked at her. "Slipped my notice," he smiled.

She cocked a brow.

…and he slid inside of her…

They both gasped. "Perhaps, Molly…" he stammered. "We can continue this examination of my prowess later," and he moved.

She nodded. Her back arched…

And he moaned, for the action caused him to move even further inside of her.

"Sherlock…" she whispered, holding onto his shoulders. And he moved again, and again, she felt him filling her with every movement…he kissed her, and she felt her core searing…she was going to orgasm then… _that_ had never happened to quickly. "Oh my god…" she cried…

…this caused him to move frantically, delving deeper and harder…he took her breast in his mouth, and Molly came, hard…her climax was warm, wet, and plentiful, and he followed directly behind.

He slumped on top of her, breath heavy. Molly was delirious…she noticed then that they were half off the sofa. "Sherlock…can you…?" she started to move.

"Oh…" he clumsily sat up. "Sorry."

"S'okay," she smiled. "You all right?" she tried to catch his glance.

He nodded. "I think so," and he looked at her.

And she smiled, then began to giggle.

…and he followed…they laughed together. His head fell back, and Molly held her stomach as she laughed heartily.

And after a few minutes, they stopped.

He looked around. "Can I get you some water?"

Molly nodded and wiped her eyes.

Sherlock pulled his boxers on and went to her kitchen, and poured two glasses of water. He brought them in and handed her one. She pulled the blanket back over her as she took the cup and drank. "That was…"

"Wonderful?"

"Yeah. A bit."

He looked at her crookedly. "A bit?"

"I meant it as a gross understatement."

"Ah."

She smiled. "Maybe we could move to my bedroom, though. More comfortable."

"Yes. That is an excellent idea," he drank. "But in a moment."

"Ok…?"

He sat back and took her feet into his lap. "I don't want to disturb this."

"This?"

He looked at her. "Happiness."

She swallowed and nodded. "It is nice, isn't it?"

"Molly…that hardly covers it…"

She sighed and sat back as he absentmindedly rubbed her foot. "Sherlock?"

"Hm."

"How did this happen?"

Now he looked at her. "My sister saw something that I didn't."

"Does she know who I am?" Molly breathed.

"Well…I asked her about it today," he paused."Yesterday. Molly…now, I want you to keep a clear head."

"Ok?"

He sighed and his head fell back, and then he turned toward her with a look of slight nervousness. "James Moriarty."

"What?" she crinkled her nose.

"He…and Euros had some time together a few years back. And they talked about me, about exacting revenge on Mycroft and myself. You see, you came up in conversation, but where James Moriarty was convinced of my indifference, Euros wasn't. She thought that he had bought into the facade I had created, whereas she was more wily, and privy to my past. She knew that I wouldn't surround myself with people whom I cared little for, and that I was likely pushing you away…she decided to discover just how much I cared…" his gaze fell.

"And did she?" she swallowed.

"No. But she ascertained your heart and guessed mine. It was a gamble, but a good one."

"So…Irene wasn't part of this…?"

"Game."

"Jesus."

"It was a game…the whole of it. She would be ignored and hidden away no longer, which is what, I imagine, was at the center of it all. It could be regarded as a retreat back to a childhood wrong, but the much larger interpretation was that Mycroft had erased Euros from our lives. She was tired of it. One could hardly blame her, though her method is questionable," he smiled.

"Questionable? Four people died."

"I know it. Trying to…lighten it up."

"Oh my god," she rolled her eyes.

"But no…" he shifted. "Irene never played a part in this. I don't care for her in a deep way, nor does she me. She's a lesbian…well. Bisexual, with a preference for women. And she's too…something…for me to ever care that much for her."

"Too dominating a personality?" Molly smiled.

He looked at her. "That was a terrible joke, Molly. You should try…" he swallowed, and stopped. Closed his eyes.

"What is it?"

"I…" he shook his head, opened his eyes, and removed her feet from his lap as he stood. "I was just reminded…" and he walked over to the window.

"Sherlock?"

"I was thinking about that Christmas."

Molly blanched, knowing exactly what he meant. "Why?" her voice cracked.

"Because I had made a comment about you not making a jokes, and I was about to do it again."

She looked at her hands folded on the throw. "You shouldn't dwell, Sherlock. I forgave you. And I meant for everything."

He turned toward her, his arms crossed over his bare chest. He opened his mouth, closed it, and nodded. "I was…"

"Awful sometimes, yes."

"Then how…?"

She stood with the blanket still wrapped around her and went over to him. "Maybe it's just my type," she smiled, and took his hand. "Let's go to bed."

He nodded, and followed Molly into the bedroom. She let the throw fall and crawled into the bed. And watched as he did the same.

He turned on his side to look at her, examining her face. "You're a lovely woman, Molly Hooper."

She shrugged.

He smiled.

"You don't smile enough," she observed.

"Maybe because I've never had much reason to."

"Maybe…" she whispered.

…and he pulled her toward him and kissed her. He leaned her back and rolled on top of her. And he dropped his mouth to her neck, and worked his way down, taking a nipple in his mouth, and reached for her sex.

She gasped as he massaged her, and took hold of his hair…

…he fell further, trailing kisses along her stomach, and part of her was a bit nervous about where he was headed. They had just had sex…"Sherlock?"

"What?" he looked up at her, his face intent.

"Are you…?"

He smirked, then placed his palms on either side of her hips. "Yesss…"

"But…"

"What is it? Are you uncomfortable?"

She looked away. "Well, we just had sex, and…"

"And I ejaculated into your vagina. It's mine, Molly…I don't mind."

She swallowed, then looked at him. "Ok."

He nodded, then lowered himself…

…and she felt instant bliss. "Oh my god…" she breathed as his tongue played with her sex…she bucked her hips and he hummed into her, causing her to orgasm.

She was shocked that it, again, took so very little to climax. Never had that been an issue for her, in fact, she would occasionally not orgasm at all during sex.

He rose from in between her legs and smiled at her, wiping his mouth. "That wasn't so bad, now, was it?"

"What…" she swallowed. She felt dizzy.

He moved back up to her, and touched her cheek. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," she nodded.

"Molly…" his voice fell.

"Hm?" she looked at him, he was very close to her.

"Can you…can you guide me…?"

Her brow furrowed until she understood what he meant. She smiled, nodding, and her hand traced down his torso to his erection, and she took it…

He hissed, closing his eyes.

She opened her legs more, and led him to her core…

He pushed inside, and he cried out. He moved, hard and steady a few times, then buried his face into her neck trembling. He went limp and fell into her a bit, then kissed her neck and moved to her cheek, until he found her mouth.

Molly kissed him…and he rolled onto his side without breaking the kiss. When she pulled away, he took her and held her close to his chest. "I hate myself for never seeing…how much time I wasted."

"We don't need to worry about that anymore," she said, tracing circles on his back, then untangled herself. "We have now. And tomorrow."

"Longer, then…" he said.

She nodded. "Longer."

"Are you tired?"

"A bit," she replied. "Will you be here in the morning?"

"Molly…if you let me, I'll never leave," he kissed her nose.

…and she fell asleep with a smile.


	13. Chapter 13

He felt the presence of her, and his heart felt light.

For so long he felt the heaviness of isolation…and he opened his eyes. There was Molly, her long hair in a cascade on the pillow.

Sherlock smiled and got up from the bed. He pulled his boxers on and got his phone…there was a text from Mycroft.

He sighed.

 _Just wondering how things went._

It was never "just" with his brother…he went to the kitchen and started coffee. He thought about calling Mycroft…

And thought that he'd better just get it over with.

And he dialed him up.

"Well, brother mine. How are things?"

Sherlock sighed. "Fine."

"Just fine?"

"No."

He heard Mycroft shuffle things. "Shall I guess?"

"Your plan worked."

"Ah, good. You see? A little get away and everything is set to right."

"Yes. And some coaching from John."

Mycroft chuckled. "Dr Watson should serve as a couple's therapist."

"I doubt that he would agree to such a thing," and he sat down on Molly's sofa.

"So she loves you still. Despite everything."

"She does, evidently."

"Shocking."

Sherlock laughed. "It is…well…if there's nothing else…"

"Give Dr Hooper my best," and he hung up.

Sherlock sighed.

"Who was that?"

He turned and saw Molly standing in the doorway. "Good morning."

"Who were you talking to?" she went over to him and sat across.

"My brother."

"Your brother."

He nodded. "Yes. Mycroft?" and he stood. "Coffee?"

"Sherlock…"

"Hm?" he went to the kitchen.

"What's going on? What happened?"

"I don't understand," he prepared the coffee maker.

"Did you get help from Mycroft to come to Derbyshire?"

And he sighed. He didn't think that this would be a problem, but then, he couldn't be sure. Molly was still fragile. "I did."

"What did he do?"

"He…" he closed his eyes, and hoped that this wasn't going to tarnish the progress made. He was desperately in love with her, and he wasn't sure if that her reciprocal feelings were as unwavering as his own, nor if this fact would render her so cross that she would chuck him out. "He knew the The Lock Up's owner."

"The bed and breakfast?"

He nodded and turned toward her. "He sent the advertisement to you, hoping that you'd call. He arranged it so that you wouldn't pay much. And when you made the reservation, I followed."

She stared at him.

…he continued. "…and I occasionally texted John for advice, since I have, quite literally, no experience with this sort of thing."

"You mean…?"

"When I said that I would meet you in a few minutes, I was texting John. And I needed privacy because I needed to think. To be certain that I wasn't reading anything into your behavior."

He watched her swallow. "So this was all orchestrated."

"Well…in a way. In others, no."

"And what ways was it not?"

He went to her and knelt in front of her. "Molly…you must understand. I had no experience, no idea how to properly proceed. And the fact that it was possible that you had stopped loving me was so frightening…" he swallowed and looked down. "I needed to isolate us. I needed to have time with you, unencumbered by outside variables. I needed…" he looked at her once more. "Just you."

"I don't know what to say."

"Are you cross?"

He watched her look at her hands. "No. I suppose not."

"Then we can move past this."

"I dunno, Sherlock. It's always something with you, isn't it? I feel as though I'm always forgiving you."

He sat back and then rocked to his feet. He sighed. She had a point. He heard the beep of the coffee and went to pour them both some. "Molly, I know that I'm an impossible git. I know that it's a miracle that you love me still," and he handed her a cup. "But I did what I did because I was at a loss, and desperate. You wouldn't speak with me."

"Maybe you should have respected me enough to make up my own mind in the time that I needed instead of barging in and forcing me to deal with you."

He cleared his throat. "I was afraid."

"Of?"

"Losing you."

"You didn't have me at the time," and she sipped.

"No…but I was reasonably sure that if I let you, you might fall out of love with me."

"Oh, Sherlock. That's not how this works…"

"Well. Enlighten me," he said, finishing his coffee and turning toward her.

"You cannot choose who you love. You cannot decide one day that you no longer love someone. It's gradual…all of it. The only thing that you can choose is how you love. And that was what I was trying to do. I didn't want to pine over you, or to let you determine our interactions…and though I had, to a reasonable extent, changed much of those things, I had felt so betrayed by you…"

He winced, for it hurt to hear her say that.

"…that I needed to think about the way I dealt with you in a better way. I thought that, before you explained to me the situation, that you were making fun of me, or proving a point or something. And that didn't mean that I had stopped loving you, because that would be impossible," she smiled, then looked down.

"What did it mean, Molly?" he whispered.

"It meant that I needed to love myself."

"Don't you love yourself?"

"No more than you love _yourself._ "

He smirked. "Touche."

"We are more alike than I ever thought."

He touched her cheek…"I love you, Molly Hooper. Please don't ever doubt that."

"And I love you," she held the hand on her cheek. "But maybe, just to keep you on your toes, you should doubt it now and again."

He laughed. "You want me to try to win your heart over and over?"

"Well, despite everything, it was rather fun, being away and seeing things with you…"

"To keep it fresh, next time, Cornwall."

Molly leaned over and kissed him.

* * *

That night, Sherlock was playing a tune as Molly prepared dinner. "When will 221B be ready?"

"In about a month," he said over the playing.

And she turned the timer on…then poured some wine and went over to the sofa. Sherlock was looking out of her window, the violin singing sweetly. He finished and set it down, then picked up the wine and sat next to her.

"That was lovely."

"I wrote it," he sipped, sitting back. "While in Derbyshire."

"You wrote that?"

"I did. I began it the night I told you I was in love with you, and I finished it today."

"Equal parts pain…"

"…and…" she blushed.

"Ecstasy," he finished. "Here," he handed her the sheet music.

Its title was, "Molly."


End file.
